Crimson China (18 page)

Once back in her room, Lili sits on the bed and ponders the round carpet. Adrian seems changed somehow; her being here has altered him. She thought that she was helping May, but in reality she is enabling Adrian to find a new life. The idea troubles her, but she is not sure why. Surely he is entitled to his own life? Her mind flies back in time to Chen. When she was in her last year of university, she took a class in American literature. Chen was in his early thirties, had only recently been appointed to the English department,
and was unlike any teacher she’d ever had. He listened attentively to his students and seemed less interested in teaching than in guiding them towards their own insights, an approach she and the others found vaguely unsettling. He urged them to read everything they could lay their hands on, and kept a small library of foreign books that he made available to those who were interested.

Chen seemed unfazed by the strictures under which they all laboured. That spring the government had announced a campaign to crack down on serious crime. Officials all over the country were exhorted to “Strike Hard” against criminals. The campaign was aimed at crimes such as murder, but it extended to large scale theft and corruption cases, and hundreds of those found guilty had been publicly executed, sometimes in open-air stadiums filled with jeering crowds. These campaigns always had a sobering effect on university life. Only seven years had passed since the student uprisings in Tian An Men Square. And though it was rarely mentioned, the memory of that time lay dormant within them all.

Chen seemed interested only in literature; his actions could never be construed as political. Lili had seen other students quietly returning books to him after class, so one day she plucked up her courage and stopped by his office. It was tiny, little bigger than a cupboard and there were books everywhere: piled on his desk, in towering stacks upon the floor, and on shelves double-filled along the wall. When she appeared in the doorway, he frowned at her through his glasses: he was small and thin, and not particularly handsome, but he had an air of quiet understanding that she found reassuring. When she asked whether she might borrow a book, his face opened at once, as if he was seeing her for the first time, and he welcomed her in warmly, directing her to one shelf in particular. Flushing, she scrutinised the shelf: many of the books she’d never heard of. Others were fat volumes that she knew she’d struggle to finish.

She wondered briefly whether he might suggest one, but he was watching her intently, and she realised that the act of choosing held significance. She did not want to disappoint him. Her eyes raced down the line of unfamiliar titles, pausing at a slim volume whose author, at least, she had heard of:
The Old Man and the Sea
. She plucked the book from the shelf and he gave an interested nod, as if the choice said something about her, though she did not know what. She excused herself quickly and spent the next three evenings on her bunk labouring through the book. In truth, she found it hard going: the long descriptions of the struggle between the man and fish began to irritate her after a time, and so little happened in the course of the story. Later that week, she appeared in Chen’s doorway, the book in her hand. He paused in his work and smiled up at her, pushing his chair back from the desk.

“What did you make of it?”

“I liked the descriptions of the sea,” she said tentatively.

“And the fish? What did you make of the marlin?” He used the phonetic translation:
ma ri lin
.

She hesitated. Was he teasing her? The fish was a fish, of course. And it fought heroically but died, only to be eaten by the sharks. So its death was pointless.

“I did not understand why he needed to kill it. The old man came to regard the fish as his brother, and seemed more attached to it than anything else in his life,” she answered.

“Ah,” said Chen. “So in the end, was the fish his friend or his adversary?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Perhaps it was both,” he suggested with a smile. “There is room in literature for ambiguity,” he added.

Lili frowned. It was not the answer she’d expected. She wanted Chen to tell her outright, to
instruct
her; after all, he was her teacher. But he seemed reluctant to do so.

“The important thing was that they respected each other,”
continued Chen. “And each kept their dignity. In the end, the old man and the fish were equals.”

“But the fish died.”

“Yes, but the old man did not succeed in bringing it home. In death he did not better it – rather, it returned to the sea.”

Lili paused. She had not thought of it this way. Chen smiled benignly.

“Shall I give you something else to read?” he asked, sensing her unease. She nodded, relieved. He pulled another battered paperback from his shelf and handed it to her. She looked down. It was a slim volume of poetry by Emily Dickinson.

“Try this,” Chen said. “It is completely different. You might find that it appeals to you more than
Hai Ming Wei
.”

The poems did appeal to her. Though many of the words were unfamiliar, she liked the crisp brevity of the writing, and the sureness of the poet’s voice. When she finished she read the biography at the back of the volume. Emily Dickinson had been something of a recluse: she had lived in her family home all her life and never married. Lili wondered then whether Chen was suggesting something with the choice; perhaps he’d realised there was a side of her much like the poet. If so, Lili wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or offended. But she was eager to discuss the poems with him the next day.

And so their friendship began. Each week he chose for her a new paperback, and at night when her room mates had finished their studies, she lay on her bunk deciphering its contents. They would discuss the books when she returned them, and each time he coaxed her gently towards an interpretation, while still encouraging her to find her own truths in what she read. As the weeks went past, she found herself looking forward to these sessions more and more, even dressing with care and taking extra time with her hair and make-up. She felt silly doing so: Chen was a married man, she knew as much, with a wife and child living in another province.
Moreover, his behaviour towards her had never once suggested even the barest hint of impropriety. But she found herself wondering what sort of woman he had married, and what kind of husband he was.

One day, after he’d returned from visiting his wife and daughter over the Spring Festival, she worked up the courage to ask him about his family. “My wife is an English teacher,” he answered matter-of-factly.

Like me, thought Lili. He married someone like me.

“Her mother has been unwell these past few years, so she wishes to remain at home to look after her,” Chen added.

“It must be difficult to be so far apart,” Lili said.

“One grows accustomed to distance,” he replied with a small smile. “Even if it is not what one would choose. And it makes our time together more precious.”

Lili felt her mouth go dry. She wanted him to say that in fact the distance suited him; that his marriage was a loveless match that had long since run its course. But instead he fished in his desk for a photo and pulled it out, handing it to her. Lili took the photo with a trembling hand and stared down at the woman and child. His wife’s looks were bookish and unassuming, but her smile was warm and there was a sparkle in her eye that filled Lili with envy. She held a young child in her arms who frowned sternly at the camera.

“That is Ran Ran, my daughter,” said Chen proudly. “She is three now. And very stubborn.”

“She’s adorable,” murmured Lili, wondering whether she should also remark upon his wife.

“Thank you. I am very fortunate.”

Lili watched as Chen carefully returned the photo to his drawer. She had no interest whatsoever in her male classmates, yet this kind and gentle man aroused in her a complex set of feelings. She rose and made her excuses, stumbling from the room. It was only
when she reached her dorm that she realised she’d forgotten to ask him for another book.

Later that spring, Chen announced to the class that he was launching a translation contest for anyone who was interested. The winner would receive a new edition of the
Oxford English
Dictionary
. Lili worked hard on her entry: a passage from
Hard
Times
by Charles Dickens. She also spent time in Chen’s office helping him to catalogue the submissions, as the response had been overwhelming. While she sorted and organised a filing system, he sat at his desk reading through them. Occasionally he would chuckle aloud, or shake his head at an error, which he would mark carefully. When he particularly liked something, he would sit forward excitedly, and his eyes would shine with favour. Each time Lili would crane her neck to see whose writing had brought on this response, and each time she would feel a small pang of jealousy that it wasn’t hers.

One evening, he cleared his throat deliberately and waved a sheaf of paper at her. “I’ve come to yours,” he said.

“Oh.” Lili waited uncertainly.

“Perhaps you should go now,” he suggested gently.

She rose, flushing, and gathered up her things. “Yes, of course. Excuse me.”

“I look forward to reading your submission,” he said kindly.

The next day in class he gave no clue to his response, though she searched his face for some indication. Afterwards, she lingered briefly, but when another teacher entered to speak to him, she left quickly. Two days later, there was an announcement of the winners posted on the main bulletin board in the English building. Lili stood in front of the board, stunned. Her entry had not even been placed among the top three. A popular male student from the year below had won with a translation of Walt Whitman, and the second and third prize had gone to girls in her year. One was even in her dorm: a quiet, round-faced girl with hair that fell
nearly to her waist, whom Lili had never given a second thought. Though she had not expected to win, she had thought that her status as his unofficial assistant would count for more. But of course it had not, she reflected sullenly as she walked to her next class. Chen was unswervingly fair in his treatment of his students. His conduct was unimpeachable. Was that not why she admired him?

When she got home that evening, there were raised eyebrows from her room mates. She realised she’d made one too many references to the contest and its possible outcome, even laughing over some of the entries. One student, she had told them a few evenings before, had translated the word
aromatic
as
romantic
. For the next few weeks, she could not bring herself to visit Chen in his office. She came and went quickly from class and took care never to meet his gaze. One day, only a week before they were due to break for the summer holiday, he asked her to stay behind after class. When the others had gone, he leaned back upon his desk and crossed his arms.

“You’ve not come to see me lately,” he said.

“I’ve been busy with exams,” she replied evasively.

“I see.” Chen gave a small nod. “I thought perhaps you were disappointed by the outcome of the contest.”

“Not at all. I’m sure the winners were far more deserving.”

“Your entry was very good, very capable.”

“But not outstanding,” she said.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted.

“I should have worked harder.”

A pained expression crossed Chen’s face.

“You have a genuine talent for English, Lili. But translation isn’t just a question of rendering a book’s meaning, it’s about capturing the author’s intentions. You must interpret not just the words, but the essence of the work.” Chen paused then.

Lili saw that his shirt was missing a button, and there was a
small stain to one side of his collar.
I could fix these
, she thought fleetingly.

“At any rate,” Chen added gently, “I think you will make a fine teacher one day.”

“But not a translator,” she said.

“I’m sure you can succeed at that too, if you put your mind to it.”

She looked up at him.
But I cannot succeed in capturing you
, she thought.

“Thank you,” she said instead, rising to go.

“By the way,” Chen said as she was leaving. Lili paused in the doorway. “My wife and daughter will move here in September. Her mother has recovered from her illness.”

Lili felt a lump rise in the back of her throat. Did he think this news would make her happy?

“Congratulations,” she murmured.

“Thank you. It’s been a long time in coming. You’ll be gone by then, won’t you? It’s a pity. She would have liked to meet you.”

Lili stared at him, unable to speak. The thought of meeting his wife face to face, of making small talk, filled her with dread. How could their minds run in such different directions? Perhaps she had fooled herself about Chen; perhaps he was not her kindred spirit after all.

That was the last time she had spoken to him, though several months later, when she was passing by the campus, she caught a glimpse of him queuing at a bus stop with his wife and child. He looked older somehow, and more harried. He held tightly to his daughter’s hand, and when the crowd surged around them, he quickly swept the child into his arms. Lili watched from the window of her bus until they’d disappeared from view.

Now, sitting on her bed in Adrian’s house, the familiar emptiness has returned. Once again, she has succumbed to the lure of a false
future, this time without realising. Until now she had thought of Adrian as something of a tragic figure – single, lonely, bereft – a man struggling to raise a child that was not his own. Now she sees that he is something far different, a man in control of his destiny. Lili looks over at the framed photo of Wen. He too had taken charge of his fate, had gone in search of something that lay beyond her understanding.
Had he found it?
she wondered
And had it been
worth the price?

As spring turns to summer, Wen’s days fall into a routine. Mornings are devoted to studying English and afternoons to housekeeping, cooking and gardening. Angie’s garden has thrived under his care: the rangy lawn, once full of weeds, is now lush and green. He has pruned the trees and shrubs back to their intended shape, and restored order to the flower beds, which have begun to bloom in a profusion of colour. He found a mass of old bricks at the back of the garden and spent several days laying a paved area at the top of the garden by the back door. He laid the bricks in the shape of a lotus: a symbol of purity and compassion in his culture, but he struggled to explain its significance to Angie. She seemed surprised that he had taken the trouble to lay the bricks in a pattern, and this in turn surprised him, as he would not have undertaken such a labour without doing so. At such times he realises how deeply his culture is embedded in him.

Most of the time, though, he feels his country receding. The longer he is away from it, the more he senses its complexity, as if he is a passenger in a tiny rowing boat watching an enormous ship from afar. For the first time he can see the ship in its entirety, but he will never understand its inner workings, what propels the ship forward through the waves. And he no longer understands the place he once occupied within its rigid frame. Perhaps he never
did, for a part of him has felt this distance, this uncertainty, all his life.

As soon as he was old enough, he had begun to question the unlikely circumstances of his birth, and the cataclysmic act of nature that tore apart his family. But it was not until he was sixteen, when his stepmother lay dying with cancer, that he summoned the courage to ask her about the earthquake that had killed his parents. She’d spoken of it before, but only in the vaguest terms, and largely as a means of marking time, as in:
after the
quake, we did not see the swallows for many years
. But this time, she fixed her tired gaze on him and gave a frown of such sadness that he instantly regretted asking. Then she turned her head away and spoke very slowly, her eyes clouding with memory.

“That was an extraordinary summer,” she said. “It was too hot. As if the earth was trying to burn us all out of our homes. In the weeks leading up to the quake, many people had dragged their mats outside at night to sleep in the open air. They were the lucky ones, when the time came. That morning, the water rose in the well. As I stood there, it rose and fell three times. I remember wondering why I’d never seen such a thing before. I turned away without drawing water – something made me turn away – as if I should not see. That was the first sign. Later that night, the lights started. Beautiful coloured lights strung out across the sky. Silver blues and greens, like the shimmering scales of a fish. I suppose we should have known, after all we’d been through, not to trust such beauty.”

She paused then, for a moment overcome. He thought perhaps this was all that she would say, and decided maybe this was for the best. But then she began to speak again. “Afterwards, no one cried. There was too much sorrow. Anyway, we were too numb to mourn. It was days before the army came to rescue us. We did what we could in the meantime, but we had no tools, no machinery, no food or clean water. And then the rain
came. It fell in torrents, for days on end, to wash away all the death. But of course it only made things worse. There were piles of corpses everywhere, lining the roads, clogging the alleys. Piles as high as a house, rotting in the rain, waiting for a proper burial. And as soon as the rain stopped, the flies. Great black clouds of them, so thick that you could hardly breathe.

“We were lucky to find you in all the chaos. We knew they’d rescued newborn twins from the hospital wreckage – who didn’t? The story was broadcast for days on the radio. But when we came forward to claim you, at first the local authorities refused to see us. They didn’t believe we were blood relations. They thought we were childless gold diggers. They’d planned to send you to a special orphanage with all the others. The orders had come straight from Beijing: none of the children orphaned by the earthquake were to be given to local families. They were to be raised by the state as model citizens, loyal to the party. We fought hard to get you; and in the end we bribed the hospital superintendent with all our savings. It was the only way.

“Life was bitterly hard. We slept outside in tents for months, all through that long cold winter. I kept you both inside my quilt, right next to my skin; it was a miracle we didn’t freeze. We’d lived through so much already – first the Japanese occupation, then the famine years, and afterwards, the terrible upheaval of the Cultural Revolution. But this was different, because we bore it alone. We did not share it with the rest of the nation. Afterwards, they tried to call us the Brave City. But we weren’t brave. Not really. We had no choice.

“I nearly left your stepfather more than once during that time. In those first few years, there were many hasty marriages, men and women who’d lost their spouses and quickly recoupled, so it would not have attracted much attention. But I had twins to raise. You and your sister. Two precious gifts. And I couldn’t do that on my own. So I stayed.”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

She took his hand then, and pressed it to her chest.

“You’ve been a good son. Not of my own flesh perhaps, but of my own heart. That is what matters most. I’ve often wondered why I found so much fortune out of circumstances that caused such misery for others. I’ll never know.”

Wen had asked himself the same question: why had he and Lili been spared, when so many others had perished? Growing up, the fact of their shared fortune had led them in different directions. Lili was grateful and determined to make the most out of life. Wen was more philosophical: his parents’ tragedy was also his own. He would carry it with him always, like a birthmark. It wasn’t that he made little of life’s opportunities. It was that he was painfully aware of how fleeting they were.

One Saturday, after he has finished laying the patio, Angie drives him to a large garden centre where they buy a round painted wrought-iron table and two chairs. The set is half-price and costs ninety-nine pounds: a small fortune at home, but perhaps not so much here, he now realises. A thin-faced older salesman hovers behind them while they look over the furniture. The man directs all of his comments to Angie. She asks a few questions, then turns to Wen.

“Well? What do you think?”

Wen looks at the salesman. “What if rain?”

It is the first time he has spoken and the salesman’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“It has a rustproof coating,” the man replies after a moment’s hesitation. “And a five-year guarantee.

“Five years,” says Angie, staring down at the table. She runs a hand along its surface.

Five years
, thinks Wen. Angie turns to him and their eyes meet.

“Five years is good enough for me,” she says.

A few days later, Wen goes for a walk along the coast, heading south of the promenade at Morecambe Bay. The weather is unsettled, and perhaps because of this, he too is restless. He passes an old church and a graveyard, then climbs a flight of stone steps up to the top of a bluff looking out over Half Moon Bay. Here he finds the ruins of an ancient building, another church perhaps, and a scattering of ancient graves hewn into stone. Wen pauses at the site: the six graves have been laid out in a grim line, their corpse shapes etched deep into solid rock. One is disconcertingly smaller than the rest: it must have contained the body of a child. The stone cavities are half filled with rainwater, and the sight unnerves him, for death and water are linked too closely for him now.

Straight out to sea a line of dark clouds rolls along the horizon. As he stands gazing out across the water, he realises that he has been summoned here by the storm, that the spirits of those he worked alongside now reside here, trapped for ever in its fury. He freezes, the bone-aching cold of that night rushing back through him, together with the terrifying darkness of the sea. If he closes his eyes, he could be with them. He feels slightly faint, as if his legs are no longer beneath him. He turns and stumbles back down the ancient stone steps, leaving the sea and its ghosts behind.

On the way home he turns inland, seeking refuge in a maze of streets lined with old cottages. He walks without purpose or direction, staring at each house as he passes. The neighbourhood is obviously prosperous: two years ago a road such as this one, with its freshly tarred surface, neatly manicured lawns and immaculately restored old cottages, would not have been conceivable to him. Now it forms part of his reality. The idea still confounds him: the distance he has travelled, the changes he has
known, the life he has endured. He comes to the end of a long, winding road, where a large, slightly run-down house is set well back from the street. The lawn is thick and green and overgrown, though he can tell it has been lavished with care in the past. A tall hedge obscures much of the garden from view, but when he peers through the rusty iron gate, he sees a profusion of flowers blooming all along its borders. Roses, he realises – the most beautiful roses he has ever seen.

He hears the methodic sound of clippers. Someone is working in the front corner of the garden over to his right, just out of view. Wen pauses, knowing he should carry on, but wanting to see more. After a minute the clipping stops. He hears a slight shuffling of steps and in another moment an old woman comes into view: small, a curved back, her head bent low, silver-grey hair piled in a dishevelled manner atop her head. She wears faded cotton trousers and a pale blue apron tied about her waist, and slung over one arm is a basket filled with pale pink roses. She does not notice him at first. He watches her walk slowly across the lawn, can hear the laboured whistle of her breath and see the slight tremor of her head as she concentrates on every step. When she is almost in front of him, she pauses, her head slowly rising towards him like that of a giant tortoise. She blinks at him through her spectacles, and draws a breath. They stare at each other for a moment, before he bows to her apologetically.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“No need,” she replies matter-of-factly.

Her words confuse him. Perhaps she thinks he is selling something?

“Your garden. Very beautiful.”

He smiles and indicates the garden with a wave of his arm. She turns and surveys the garden, nodding in agreement.

“Thank you. The world needs beauty.” She turns back to him. “Do you like to garden?” she asks politely.

He hesitates, did not realise the word could be used as a verb rather than a noun.

“Yes, I like garden very much. Your roses.” He breaks off, his English failing him.

“You may come in and see them if you like.”

She beckons him in, through the metal gate, and he enters the garden, crossing over towards the bed she was working on. She turns and follows. He points to the rosebush: it is thick with deep red flowers, each blossom extravagantly splayed open by layers of perfectly formed petals. He bends closer to finger one. It smells faintly of peach.

“Difficult, this rose?”

“Difficult? To grow? Not particularly. Just temperamental. Roses are like children. They need time and attention, yet in fact they will tolerate a great deal.” She pauses for a moment and reaches up to snap off a dead-head. “I suppose these roses are my children,” she muses.

“You have no children?” he asks pityingly. She turns to him with a smile.

“I have two children. Grown now. With families of their own.”

“Oh,” he says, relieved. “They live here?”

She tilts her head to one side, regarding him.

“No. They live a long way away. But I have my garden to keep me busy. And my roses.”

Wen wonders fleetingly about her children, whether they visit with their families, whether they take time to admire her garden.

“These roses come from China, in fact,” she says.

He looks at her with surprise.

“I am from China,” he says.

She smiles. “I thought as much. The Chinese grew roses for centuries before they were brought to Europe. We owe them a great deal.”

“I do not know,” he murmurs.

“China roses are very hardy. They root easily and are very adaptable.”

“Hard?”

“They’re strong. And they can survive in many different places.”

Wen nods.
Survive.
A word he has come to understand only too well.

“But what I like best is their colour,” she says. She reaches over and snips a stem at its base with her shears. She holds the blossom out to him, and after a moment’s surprise, he takes it. “You see?” She says. “The reddest of reds. Tinged with the faintest hint of blue.”

Wen studies the delicate arrangement of petals, as if someone had fanned out a deck of cards at perfect intervals.

“It’s called Crimson China. The colour never fades, but gets darker with age. So it grows more and more beautiful each day. To my mind, these roses try harder than all the others,” the old woman adds with a smile.