Dreams of the Red Phoenix (19 page)

His mother's eyes narrowed. She didn't throw her arms
around him, as he had expected she might. She didn't invite
stares with her exclamations of fear for his life or gratitude for
his safety.

“I wonder,” she said after a long moment, “if we need weapons.”

“Mother!”

“Now, hear me out,” she continued. “Perhaps we would be
wise to have more protection than we have.”

He had assumed that once she heard of his narrow brush with
death, they would start packing their bags. She would under
stand that the safe and idyllic mission compound of his child
hood was now no different from the occupied town, and while
things might have calmed down somewhat for the time being,
the whole province was basically lawless and fraught with dan
ger. In the hinterlands of Northwestern China, far from interna
tional scrutiny, the Japanese could do anything they liked. The
wild bullet that had grazed his head had taught Charles that.

But his mother carried on, “Every one of these Chinese boys
has a mother. Some have died in my arms when they should have
been home, helping in their family field. I feel we owe it to them
and to their mothers to not just traipse off when the going gets
tough. One can't leave an army on a whim, Charles.”

He looked down at his dusty sneakers and felt dizzy. He
wanted to sink right there on the dirt path and let the stream of
people continue around him. Perhaps she was braver than he.
Perhaps he remained a coddled boy after all. He wished his fa
ther were here to sort it out.

“Son,” his mother continued as she held on to his shoulders
with two strong hands, “I'm afraid I have to ask, but where were
you when this incident took place? Were you outside the mis
sion? Were you wearing that cap?” She gestured to the Nation
alist Army hat, which he hurriedly stuffed back into his pocket.
“Charles, were you asking for trouble in some way?”

“You think it's my fault that I got shot at?”

“Sometimes your judgment isn't the best.”

“You think I deserved it?” he shouted.

“Of course not! But, perhaps it was just an instance of mis
taken identity, or you weren't as cautious as we need to be. If we
stay within the compound and are protected by Captain Hsu and
his men—”

“Mother, Captain Hsu can't protect us. The Geneva Conven
tion can't protect us from the Japs if they choose to attack.”

“We don't call them ‘Japs,' Charles. We call them ‘Japanese.'
And Captain Hsu is not an inferior commander. He is very wise.
You could learn something from him.”

She loved it, he thought, the chaos all around. “I can't listen
to you. I have to go.” He turned and started to push through the
crowds.

“Charles, get back here!”

But he kept on, weaving through the Chinese—each selling
something, wanting something, when he wanted nothing except
to leave.

“Young man,” his mother gave one last shout, “come back
here this instant!”

Charles turned down an alley, and another, and finally a third,
until there was no way her voice could still reach him. He hoped
more than anything that he might come around a bend and bump
into Han. Charles pressed on, following his Jack Purcells, which
he had tried to keep clean instead of covered in ugly yellow silt
because he thought that was how the boys back home in America
wore them. The truth was, he didn't know how the boys back
home did anything.
Life
magazine arrived six months late, when
it arrived at all. The last movie shown in the Parish Hall was
over a year old. For all he knew, Jean Harlow had been replaced
several times over by younger leading ladies.

He came out of an alley onto a crowded road. People hurried
past, intent on repairing their homes and shops, refilling tin buck
ets, carrying loads, scavenging or trading scraps of food. They
knocked into him where he stopped, but he didn't care. Charles
kicked clods of torn-up dirt, soiling his sneakers even more. He
would buy a new pair when he got out of here. Because, he made
a promise to himself, he was going home to America, no matter
what his mother said or did.

“Hey, good-looking,” a skinny, sickly girl called to him from
the door of a boarded-up shop. She wore a tight dress with slits
to the tops of her thighs, her thin arms also exposed, unlike a
proper Chinese woman. She beckoned him with long, red-tipped
fingernails. “Come on over,” she purred. Smoke and the voices of
men drifted out onto the street from inside, along with the rattle
of dice and the percussive slap of mah-jongg tiles.

“Thanks, anyway,” he said and added, “I'm an American.”

The moment he said it, he realized it was irrelevant to her
trade. She cackled, and he couldn't blame her.

“And I'm a beautiful flower. You want to pluck a beautiful
flower?”

An older woman in a flowing, large-sleeved gown appeared
from the shadowed doorway and stepped into the harsh after
noon light. Elaborate decorations floated from a bun high on her
head. Her face was painted white like the actors in Chinese opera
Charles had seen in the provincial capital. Black lines represent
ing eyebrows curved upward in a maniacal way as the grande
dame towered over the sickly girl, who shrank beside her.

“Back inside to customers!”

“But I found this delicacy,” the girl said as she tossed another
beckoning glance at Charles.

The madam looked him up and down and hissed, “He is not
for you. Now, go!” She swatted the girl's backside in the tight
dress.

Charles knew he should move but remained stuck in the same
spot, transfixed by the elaborate costume and makeup. The mad
am was far too tall to be a Chinese woman, he thought, and only
later considered whether she might not have been a woman at
all. Beads of sweat stood out on her painted forehead, and the
whiskers on her chin had been powered white as well, like one of
the characters in Lian's terrifying bedtime tales.

“You America?” the madam asked as she stepped closer.

He nodded.

“Get lost, America! You don't belong here.”

Her sudden rudeness woke him from his spell. “All right, I'm
going,” he said, but still he didn't budge.

“What is it now, boy?” she asked, changing her tone. “You
want to come inside? Don't just look. Touch. But first,” she held
out a hand with the long pinkie nail, “give all your coins to me!”

Charles remained transfixed by her unnatural appearance
and voice. The words seeped out of her in a high singsong that
grated on the ear but was also strangely enticing. She gave him
the creeps, but he couldn't take his eyes off her.

“No, you see,” he began, “I just wanted to say that we're not
the enemy. We're on your side. Look,” he pulled out the Chinese
Nationalist cap and placed it on his head. “I even have this.”

She careened down off the wooden steps in her silk skippers
and scurried toward him. With a high-pitched cry, she lifted her
arm in the elaborate robe, waved a folded fan in his face, and
used it to knock the cap off his head. “Take that off!” she shout
ed. “Only our soldiers wear that!”

Charles snatched the cap from the dusty ground.

“Go back to Christian church and pray for us.” She swat
ted his shoulders with the fan. “Go, America! Go home and
pray!”

Charles jumped away from the crazy woman, turned, and
hurried off. When he reached the mission compound, he couldn't
bring himself to go in through the open gate but instead scram
bled up the stone steps to the top of the wall. He needed to see
the countryside. The madam was right, he thought. He and his
mother and the other missionaries should go back to America
and pray, though he knew his days of praying were over. He'd
never kneel again, or whisper into the folds of his hands before
bed. Even his father's advice seemed wrong now. He didn't need
to care for his mother. She was stronger than he was and had a
will of her own. What he needed to do was take care of himself
and get the hell out of there.

The cooing of the birds reached Charles as he reached the top.
At least he was keeping his promise to them. Dusk meant feeding
time. But when he turned the corner, he saw that the cage was
already open. The birds fluttered about as their seeds were scat
tered before them on the brick walkway.

“Han!” Charles shouted as he ran toward his old friend and
hugged him. “Dear Lord,” he said, “you're a sight for sore eyes.”

Han nodded enthusiastically, his face bright and open.

“Where on earth have you been?” Charles asked.

Han smiled and nodded, though more shyly. “I'm with the
Eighth Route Army,” Han said. “The best army in all of China.
We have tens of thousands of recruits now!”

Charles stood back and looked his friend up and down. Han
stood straighter and seemed taller. He wore a pale blue jacket
and matching pants, thin cloth shoes—a real uniform, including
a belt that cinched his narrow waist with a buckle bearing the
Communist star. He even had on a Red Army cap.

“You look good,” Charles said.

“We don't have much food, but we manage. And all the sol
diers take lessons in reading and writing. I help teach them. It's
good, Charles. The country is changing. For the first time, the
people are in charge. No more warlords and, no offense, no more
greedy foreign influences. Not you, but, well, you know—”

Charles didn't know, but he wasn't going to ask Han to ex
plain it to him now.

“Because of my experience here in the mission,” Han contin
ued, “I will serve as a translator for our top leaders. Some are
the sons of peasants and laborers, but very smart men. I've never
known such intelligent men, and brave, too.”

Charles had never heard Han speak for so long or so elo
quently about anything before.

“But how are you?” Han asked. “I see our birds are plump.
You have done a good job caring for them.”

“Not really,” Charles said.

“It is good to see you.” Han reached up and clapped Charles
on the shoulder. “But,” Han said, stepping back, “where did you
get that Nationalist Army cap?”

Charles pulled it off and tossed it onto the bricks as if it was
on fire. “I found it by the side of the road. I don't mean anything
by wearing it. I'm not in favor of them. I don't really know who
I'm in favor of, except you, of course. If you want me to burn it, I
will. We could burn it together!”

Han laughed. “You are so dramatic, my friend. No need to
burn it. Just don't wear it. It's not safe. And also not right.”

“Of course, absolutely.”

“Would you like my Red Army cap instead?” Han asked.

Charles could hardly believe it. “That's too generous.”

“I shouldn't wear my uniform in town, anyway, even with
only a few Japs around. I would be honored for you to have it.”

Han handed him the green cap with the red star, and Charles
bowed. “I'm the one who is honored.”

“You are my friend,” Han said.

Charles wanted to mention how much he'd missed Han and
how he hoped they could talk things through like they always
had. But instead, the two boys watched the birds as they milled
about on the wall, pecking at the last of their food.

After a few moments, Charles asked, “Can you tell me where
you've been?”