Inheritance (11 page)

INSTEAD OF THESE EVENTS
I remember things no one will talk about. One day that autumn, I saw Hu Ran unclothed. I must have been four years old and Hu Ran almost seven. He had spent the morning playing in the dusty street and went behind the house to rinse off in the pond. My aunt was reading in her room; our mothers were nowhere to be found. I saw him walk behind the house. I followed, wanting to call his name, but when I peered between the scant leaves of the cascading willow tree, my curiosity silenced me.

I knew his strange bright eyes, his ears, his dusky spider legs. But now I wanted to know more. I knew he wouldn’t have wanted me to see him naked, and this made the opportunity more tantalizing. Hu Ran shrugged out of his shirt and his brown skin glinted in a bit of sun that filtered through the moving leaves. I was close enough see the layer of dust over his hands. I saw his neat shoulders emerge, and then, as he turned sideways, the dusky hollows under his left arm, and a small nipple set in a coin-sized circle. I watched his taut belly breathing as he pulled down his pants. Somewhere in the courtyard a door opened and closed, but I paid no attention, focusing instead upon his high hipbone and smooth brown thigh and, coming from somewhere between his legs, a sturdy brown thumb.

“Get away from her!”

Bright sunlight pierced my eyes. My mother had swept back the willow with one hand. Her raging shape towered over us. I screamed. With long arms she seized me and carried me off.

That night she and Hu Mudan went into her room and shut the door. From my own room I heard at first my mother shouting furiously and Hu Mudan laughing. But as my mother pelted Hu Mudan with words, a frightening silence grew. Then my mother said, “It was bad enough you chose to keep that bastard in the house. But I won’t allow him to corrupt my daughter.”

“All right,” said Hu Mudan. “All right.”

My mother’s voice choked and dwindled.

The next day, Hu Ran and Hu Mudan said goodbye. They would travel west. They would leave town on a poultry wagon and ride a steamboat up the Yangtze to Hu Mudan’s village in Sichuan.

Neither Hu Ran nor I understood why we were being separated. The loss was sudden and devastating. He stood before me, serious, holding out his favorite cricket in its bamboo cage. “Goodbye, young miss,” he said. “You may have my cricket.”

I sobbed, “I don’t want your cricket! I’ll feed it to Guagua!”

“You may have my necklace,” Hu Ran said. He reached into his rough cotton shirt and pulled out the brilliant jade pendant that he always wore.

But then Hu Mudan stepped between us. “No,” she said. “Hu Ran, you mustn’t give that to a girl unless you mean to marry her.”

“Why can’t I marry her?” he demanded.

She ran her hand over his short hair. “Because you are too poor for her.”

Hu Ran put the necklace back inside his shirt

Hu Mudan bent down to me and squeezed my shoulder. Her small, almond eyes were kind. “Don’t worry, Hong,” Hu Mudan said. “It’s my fate to be connected to your family. We’ll see you again.”

AFTER THAT I
didn’t sleep well for many nights. Once I overheard my parents arguing. They were discussing my father’s new job for Sun Li-jen. I couldn’t make out all of their words, but I knew that they were quarreling. In a low-pitched voice, my mother kept repeating the word “war.” “Don’t go to Hankow,” she said. “You should stop fighting and avoid the war. You should stay in Hangzhou, you could join the resistance. Don’t go to Hankow! Who cares about another promotion!” I heard her choke on the words, “What if you’re wounded again and killed!”

My father laughed. “I won’t be killed.”

My mother said, “You count on luck! You should never count on luck!”

“I always count on luck,” he said.

She said, “Please send a home message on Charlie’s telegraph.” I heard her grudging tone and knew she had no choice. But I could also hear that she was still afraid.

Later that night, a dull crash came from somewhere in the front of the house. I froze, listening, assuming that I’d perhaps fallen asleep and dreamed of it. There it was again. I hurried, in my pajamas, out of my room and down the stairs. I went across the courtyard and peered between the doors. From my vantage point, I could see down the road. I stood transfixed, bedazzled by the vision of the night. The moon shone off the whitewashed wall of the house. The dirt road itself was dark, with pale pebbles gleaming here and there. The world hung around me, dark and inviting, with the breeze washing my cheeks and stillness beckoning.

I heard a man’s voice raised in a shout. After several seconds I heard more brief shouts, the shrill of a whistle, and two quick blows, so brief and short that I had barely the time to understand what I had heard. Then cursing. Footsteps beat on the earth; fast breathing sounded. Someone ran around the corner of the house, close by, so close that I could smell the odor of scallions on his breath.

He paused, breathing hard, and glanced over his shoulder to locate his pursuer. His pace was quick, his clothing dark; he might still escape them. Then he ran. I waited for him to return. I sensed that he had no idea where to go. I could already hear his light step coming, strong and steady, doubling back. Here he was. Without thinking, I opened the door.

The man pivoted from hips to shoulders with a nervous, awkward energy. His torso, bent shoulder, legs poised in the turn, seemed an illustration of surprise.

I tried to see his face under the shadow of his cap, but I caught only the faint glint of his spectacles.

“Get inside!” he hissed at me.

I obeyed that voice. He slipped past me and past the house.

I watched him vanish down the street. Then I stood and waited, overcome by curiosity. From farther up the street came a tapping sound: the pursuers. After several minutes it grew into the noise of heavy boots approaching. Tramp-tramp-tramp, in rhythm.

The next moment passed so quickly I barely had time to see what happened, much less to panic. Now I caught a glimpse of someone running: a small man, dressed in a drab uniform and cap on which was clearly visible the Japanese sun. More quick footsteps, in a dry, implacable rhythm. Two more men burst into view. They did not speak. They went about their search with brisk efficiency. They looked around the corner of the house and down the alley. They listened. I leaned against the door and closed my eyes. Were they leaving? Yes, their footsteps faded. They were gone.

I remained where I was. Something cold streamed under my arms. I dared not open my eyes, but against the back of my closed lids I could still see the red disk. I could not forget the rhythm of their boots. I had never seen a Japanese soldier before. In that moment I had my first experience of a fear that would not leave.

After several minutes, I gathered my strength to go back to my room.

Slowly, quietly, I climbed the stairs. At some point I had recognized the familiar, urgent voice. The fugitive was my uncle. This was the last that I would see of him for many years.

THEY SAID A MAN’S SEED WOULD FLOURISH IN A PLUMP
woman with an accepting nature, and so Junan swallowed bowls of sweet porridge and ate the crackling skin of roasted ducks. She stuffed herself with pork fat and soft, white buns; she read novels in her room and tried not to care whether Weiwei and Gu Taitai were finishing the tasks she had set out for them. She tried to keep herself amused by playing mahjong, stopping always before it got too late, until the other women smiled knowingly and said she must be hiding good news from them. But time went by without result, and she grew tired of rich food, of holding her tongue, and pretending not to notice what the servants did.

He was dissatisfied with her. This suspicion writhed beneath her calm. She knew she was as beautiful and intelligent as ever. But she suspected now that this was not important. It was all for nothing; he would have been as happy with an uglier, less competent, more fertile woman. On bleak nights, she wondered if he might be right: if there was indeed something infertile about the women of their family. Her mother, whose death she would not allow herself to think about. Her sister, who now wandered the house like a lost soul with broken wings. Could it be that there was something wrong with her as well? Junan forbade herself to think about it.

It was December 1937. Soon he would be leaving her, following the war. Like all soldiers, he sought out unconquered territories. Hangzhou, once occupied, could no longer concern him. He might never gain reentry; Japanese troops would keep him from her. A puppet government, and its spies, would conspire to keep him from her. Or was it possible that he himself, his own desires, might keep him away?

A week before he left, she said, “Pu Taitai is moving her household to Hankow.”

He nodded. His friend Pu Sijian had also been promoted and had already left for the west.

“Our family could move as well.”

“Not a good idea,” he said. She could hear that his mind was somewhere else. “I don’t know where I’ll be stationed, and Hankow may be heavily bombed.”

With an effort, she made her voice as sweet and light as possible. “Here is dangerous, too. Other families are leaving.”

There was a long pause. “Look,” he said, “don’t you worry.”

She didn’t reply.

He began to speak again. He pointed out that although the airfields would be bombed, Hangzhou itself would escape the worst attacks because it would be protected by its air base. The conditions in the west would be quite harsh. Unsanitary, crowded, and certainly no place for children unless there were no alternative.

“Certainly as a mother you will understand that,” he said.

She said, “I am the mother of your daughter and I want to bear your son.”

“But I know you would never endanger him,” he said.

The air between them thickened with mutual incredulity. Junan tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

“I will visit,” he said.

“You can’t; you know you can’t cross into the occupied territory. I mustn’t even say that I know where you are. Can’t you see? Can’t you see that this is bound to lead to trouble?” Her voice was shaking.

“Forget about it, will you? Don’t worry about it for now.” He was cheerful as usual.

She did not reply, to save herself the shame of tears.

There was little time remaining, and she must act. One morning she slipped out of bed while he was still asleep and dressed in her most unobtrusive clothing. She left quietly, almost tiptoeing past the doorman and out to the street, where she hired a rickshaw and ordered the driver to take her to the commercial part of town. There she hesitated before a shop hung with red and white banners.

Inside, the large room was very orderly and the floors swept clean, but the pungent medicinal odor turned her stomach. Along the walls, their wood darkened by time, were cabinets containing tiny drawers of roots and seeds and parts of animals; jars of snakes stood in the window; a human skull watched from the shelf.

The older man who stood behind the counter wore a neat white smock. “Yes.” His voice was a hoarse croak. He could hardly inspire healing. But when she looked into his minnow eyes, she saw a confidence that could come only from knowledge. She also realized, with dislike, that he had already guessed what she wanted. Still she forced herself to speak.

“I want something to bring happiness,” she said, and her own voice sounded stiff and dry.

Without a word, he turned around and pulled open a drawer. There were perhaps a thousand drawers in the old cabinets. But the handle of this drawer had been used so much that the finish had worn off and the characters printed on it could no longer be read. He measured out some roots and wrapped them in white paper.

“Boil,” he said.

“What is the price?”

“Seven.”

“Seven coppers?”

He nodded.

“How long will it take?”

Slowly he raised his eyes. She forced herself to hold still. She fixed her eyes upon the scale and the tiny brass weights.

“You have time.”

She tapped her foot. “Do you have anything faster?”

“Pills,” he said. “One pill, one dollar. Silver.”

“Is that the only other way?”

He smiled. “Pray to the pusa.”

She recalled a bodhisattva rendered in indifferent stone. She heard her mother’s voice, “Guan Yin, song zi. Guan Yin, song zi.” Guan Yin, send sons.