Throwaway Daughter (16 page)

“Yuck. You didn’t tell me that part. But what’s that got to do with the street names?”

“I’m getting to that,” answered my granddaughter, who, like her father, loved to drag out a story. “It was one of Yang Di’s officials who decreed that the streets in this area should be named after delicacies that were served to the emperor at court, like bird’s nest, shark’s fin, swallow tail—”

“And fish lips,” Dong-mei cut in, giggling. “I don’t think I’d like to try those!”

I began to regret the special dish we had planned. But I had no time to warn Dong-mei, for Lao Zhang careered down the lane towards us and hopped off his bike, red faced and excited. “I have news!” he called.

Yong-fang hurried into the house, returning with a cool glass of beer. It was unusual for men in our area to drink beer, but Lao Zhang had been introduced to it by his friend at the bus station. My son-in-law was like a small boy who had been promised a new toy.

“I had no idea there is more than one village named after the Liu River,” he began, taking a swallow of his beer. “At least four of them. Lao Huang and I agreed that two look promising. Between the two of them, which are about thirty miles apart, the one to the northwest of here looks best. There is no bus stop at either village, which is one reason why it took so long to locate them.”

“When can I go?” Dong-mei interrupted.

My son-in-law was proud of his work for Dong-mei. He wouldn’t be rushed.

“You probably wonder why we think the northwest one looks like the best bet,” he said, smiling.

Dong-mei was a clever girl. Visibly hanging on to her impatience, she asked, “Why?”

“The one to the northeast, though closer to Yangzhou, is on the other side of the river, so villagers have to take a short ferry ride before they can catch the bus into the city. Your
moth—Chun-mei had just given birth and it wasn’t easy to travel in her condition, not to mention carrying the child with her. Besides, Lao Huang has mentioned the ferry terminal is right at the entrance to the village, so she would have been spotted by other passengers. Too much of a risk, see?”

Dong-mei nodded. “You should have been a detective instead of a bus driver,” she said.

Lao Zhang grinned. “Anyway, my friend and I agree we should try the northwest Liuhe Village first. Lao Huang estimated it’s less than two hours’ bus ride, then about twenty minutes’ walk from there to the village. If that’s not the one, we’ll go to the others, one after another. But remember, Dong-mei, it’s a long shot.”

“Can I go tomorrow?” Dong-mei asked. “I can take a taxi and get there faster.”

“No, you can’t,” my son-in-law said firmly. “If you beat the grass, you’ll frighten the snake.”

“Daddy, stop talking in riddles!” Dan-yang said. “Dong-mei isn’t familiar with all your old-fashioned expressions.” Turning to Dong-mei, she added, “He likes to read old novels, and they are hurting his brain.”

“If you go by taxi, you’ll bring too much attention to yourself,” my son-in-law explained.
“It’s better to enter the village on foot and make quiet inquiries. Even then you’ll cause a stir.”

“Okay, I’ll take the bus. I leave early in the morning,” Dong-mei said thoughtfully.

“No, no. That’s not a good idea,” I cut in. “We’ll go with you. We don’t want anything to happen—”

“But if all six of us barge in on the place,” Dong-mei said with a smile, “that will be beating the grass, won’t it?”

The determination on her face allowed no opposition. While she and Yong-fang and Dan-yang chattered excitedly about her trip the next day, I went into the kitchen to begin the meal. Lao Zhang followed me. He had planned a special dish for Dong-mei, whom he was already very fond of. Watching him busy preparing, humming tunelessly, I didn’t have the heart to stop him.

I
t was one of the best times I had ever had, and my stomach bulged from a feast of chicken, duck, vegetables, shrimp, steamed rice, and sweet cakes. Mrs. Xia’s family treated me as one of their own. I sensed she felt some sort of obligation to me. But I think she liked me, too.

The big meal had gone slowly, with lots of conversation, jokes, and toasts that made my head light. Lao Zhang told a story from a Ming dynasty novel, using a high-pitched Beijing Opera style of voice that hurled Dan-yang and me into fits of laughter. And then Yong-fang, who I had thought was kind of shy, sang while everyone except Mrs. Xia tapped their chopsticks on the edge of their bowls. When Lao
Zhang got up from the table and disappeared into the kitchen, Dan-yang insisted that it was my turn.

So I sang a twangy country-and-western tune, the-crops-failed-and-my-wife-left-me-and-my-pickup-truck-broke-down kind, making fun of the song. They looked at each other with raised eyebrows, probably wondering, What kind of music do they
have
in Canada? It was at that moment that Lao Zhang rushed into the room, carrying yet another platter steaming with the delicious aroma of ginger and garlic. God, I groaned inwardly. Not more food! He plunked it down on the table, right in front of me.

“What the
hell
is that?” I screamed.

I was staring into the wide, startled eyes of a live fish. It gazed back at me, opening and closing its mouth and pumping it gills, as if it had been rudely awakened from a nap. The body had been cooked and sliced into bite-sized morsels and piled behind the head. I realized with horror that it was the fish that had swum around in the basin earlier that day, and that its head was alive though its body was ready to eat.

“Am I hallucinating?” I exclaimed, again in English.

Confusion at the banquet table. Mrs. Xia said something sharply to Lao Zhang in local dialect and his face turned red. Dan-yang burst out laughing, her hand covering her mouth. Yong-fang looked frightened—for me or for the fish, I wasn’t sure.

“It’s called Still-alive Fish,” Yong-fang said quietly. “It’s a delicacy.”

I had committed the biggest faux pas of my life. Lao Zhang had cooked a special dish in my honour, and I had ruined everything. Yong-fang reached across the table and turned the oval platter so the fish’s head was no longer facing me. “It used to be served only at the imperial court,” she added lamely.

“In ancient times,” Lao Zhang put in, desperately trying to salvage the situation, “the cook would be beheaded if the fish arrived at the table and its mouth was not moving.”

As if that helped.

Mrs. Xia rose and lifted up the platter. Before she could turn to take it away, I touched her arm. “Please, I want to try it. I bet it’s delicious.”

Mrs. Xia hesitated before putting the plate down. My eyes welled up. “I can never thank you all enough for your hospitality. I wish my dad were here. He would finish this
dish all by himself.” I picked up my wine cup, the old way I had learned from Frank, in both hands. “To my new-found friends in China,” I said.
“Gan-bei!
”

I phoned home that night. My parents were happy that I was moving in with Mrs. Xia, until I told them there was no phone in the house and the public phone at the end of the lane didn’t have overseas service. Early the next morning I checked out of the hotel and moved my stuff to Lao Zhang and Yong-fang’s house. The night before, the whole family had ganged up on me, telling me I must stay with them. Where? I wanted to say. The house consisted of a small kitchen, a closet with a chamber pot, a sitting room, and one bedroom. Lao Zhang and Yong-fang had the bedroom, and Dan-yang and her grandmother slept in the living room. I wasn’t looking forward to living in crammed surroundings, without a square foot to myself, but I felt I couldn’t refuse. In a way, I told myself, I’d be a step closer to my goal.

I had put a lot of thought into the outfit I would wear to Liuhe Village. I didn’t want to attract any more attention than necessary—or “beat the grass” as Lao Zhang would have put
it. I had had no idea when I left home that Chinese women, even the younger ones, didn’t wear shorts. They preferred skirts, dresses, or long pants, and blouses rather than T-shirts. So I was glad that Mom had insisted that I pack two dresses. The one with the floral pattern had a swooping neckline, so I opted for the beige linen, a loosely fitting dress that fell to just above my ankles and had a crew neck. I took off my cork sandals and put on a pair of running shoes. But when I looked at myself in the mirror I changed my mind again. The reflection reminded me of the career women in downtown Toronto during rush hour. I ended up in a pair of flat-heeled walking shoes.

Wishing myself good luck, I left the house and took a local bus to the long-distance station, where I would make the connection for Liuhe Village. I met Lao Zhang inside and followed him around the small, crowded terminal to a dilapidated contraption that looked like it had been built several dynasties back: a faded blue bus with a peeling white stripe. There were already passengers on board, looking bored behind the dirty windows.

Lao Zhang introduced me to his friend Lao Huang, who sat behind the wheel. He was a
rough-looking character with a bristly crewcut. He smiled when we shook hands.

“This isn’t my route,” he said, “but the regular driver owed me a favour. Besides, no one cares who drives what, as long as the wheels are moving.”

Lao Zhang laughed, then took me aside. “Listen, Dong-mei,” he said, his voice suddenly serious, “let’s hope your journey today will be successful. But you should also prepare yourself for disappointment.”

I nodded. “I have.”

“Good.” Turning to his friend, he called out, “Take care of her!”

Lao Huang waved me into the seat behind him, which he had saved for me with a scuffed vinyl bag. Then he pulled the lever to shut the doors and started the engine.

The bus rumbled through the dusty outskirts of the city and into the flat countryside. Lao Huang kept up an almost constant stream of chatter. Like Lao Zhang, his accent was thick and I had to listen carefully over the hammering of the diesel engine. He was fascinated that I, a foreigner, could carry on a conversation in Chinese. A few of the passengers were eager to know about Canada, and tossed in questions
wherever Lao Huang left an opening. A lot of their questions were personal and nosy by North American standards.

“What a smart
Ya-tou
you are!” Lao Huang called out repeatedly. The term in general means a slave girl or a young maid but was also a pet name used by a father to his daughter, or an uncle to his favourite niece. He meant well, but I wasn’t thrilled with his choice of words.

Most worrisome were his comments about my mission, which he made at the same volume as his other remarks. “They will be so sorry, when they lay eyes on you,
Ya-tou,”
or “They will pay for what they did to you in their next lives.”

Finally the flood of questions from my-fellow travellers ran dry, and I had a chance to look at the countryside and to try to take my mind off what lay ahead for me. Paddy after green paddy separated by narrow dikes stretched to the horizon, criss-crossed by ditches and larger waterways. The day was scorching by now, the air thick with humidity, the road sending off shimmering waves of heat.

The sun was high in the sky when Lao Huang pulled to the side of the road, under the
shade of a few spindly poplars. A few people got off, hauling bundles, baskets, and live chickens in bamboo cages. An old couple climbed on. The bus jolted into motion with a roar of the engine—and made a U-turn.

Voices soared in protest. Lao Huang shouted, “I know what I’m doing, don’t worry! I just have a small detour to make, then we will all be on our way!”

The hubbub went on. One old lady in a threadbare white shirt and black pants shouted and waved her fist.

“Will you be quiet?” Lao Huang yelled back. “I promise we won’t lose any time. Now sit down and don’t bug me.” To me he said, “I am trying to save you the long walk to the village.”

He swerved onto a bumpy side road, stirring up a tower of dust. Roosters and chickens squawked and shot to the side or flapped valiantly over the low mud wall that lined the road. A goat stood panic-stricken in the middle of the track until Lao Huang blasted the horn, and it bolted out of the way. The bus came to a stop before a square of cement, which had been swept clean. On one side stood a wall of bundled straw.

“The threshing ground,” Lao Huang explained, getting out of his seat. He pointed. “Follow the path over there. It looks like it leads into the village. I will be back here around three o’clock. Don’t be late,
Ya-tou
. Good luck.”

I got down from the bus under the silent stares of the other passengers. Lao Huang swung the bus around in the narrow road and roared away, trailing a cloud of yellow dust.

If I had expected to see farmers bending to their work in the lush green paddies on both sides of the path that led to a cluster of buildings, I was wrong. The fields were empty, the rice stalks swaying in the hot breeze. Gradually I approached an orderly collection of houses. The yards in front of the identical two-storey buildings were deserted. Chickens wandered around, pecking at the ground. Goats, chained to stakes, dozed in the shadow of overhanging clay-tiled roofs.