Inheritance Read online

  That afternoon they played mahjong. Junan thought of how she should have moved the family west, over his objections. He had once mentioned the possibility of a transfer to Sun Li-jen’s Tax Police in Chongqing. She should have known.

  Around her, the women were discussing the way that so many men who’d left were taking concubines. This news had come gradually, trickling in by rumor. It had just happened to an acquaintance of Pu Taitai’s. The first wife had tried to strangle herself with the cord of her silk robe.

  “She’s a very young girl.”

  “She hasn’t learned.”

  “Peng.”

  The lamplight, making a circle over the table, barely lit their faces. They were women whose men had long ago ceased to want them. Yao Taitai’s big green mole cast a shadow over her sallow forehead. Wen Taitai slumped in her qipao, with her small, blinking, myopic eyes and flat nose reminding Junan more than ever of a reptile. But Junan could not take her eyes away from Wen Taitai’s mother, with her mannish face and great, old ears, the skin a pale tissue fitting loosely over her sagging features. They said she had once beaten her husband when he had tried to take a concubine. Now a widow, she took solace in her grandsons and her mahjong. With a loud crack, she whacked her tiles into line with her stick.

  THE KNOWLEDGE THAT there was no more money brought one freedom: there was no business to look after, and the family could leave. Junan paid a visit to Charlie Kong’s shabby shop. Charlie maintained his cheerfulness, although he was a little thinner, as the shortage of wine was making itself known even to the most devoted. Now he made a few extra yuan by working an illegal telegraph transmitter in the back room.

  DEAR HUSBAND. I WILL BRING THE FAMILY TO

  CHONGQING. JUNAN.

  He wrote back almost immediately.

  JUNAN. STAY THERE, FOR SAKE OF OUR FAMILY.

  YOUR HUSBAND.

  That night, she found spots of blood in her underpants. She took a breath. She should not have moved around so much. She would have to be more careful.

  She kept off her feet for days. She lay immobile, furious; although her mind was as relentless as a bamboo trap, her body had failed her once again. In the next few days, the smallest anxieties, tiny exertions—bending, angling, staircases—caused her to bleed. She had her room moved downstairs. The baby was slow to come, and by late October, when the Generalissimo relocated to Chongqing, she was still imprisoned in her room.

  This forced passivity was more than she could bear. Li Ang had left behind a few things to be mended and refurbished. One afternoon, she began to work on a jacket. She thought that it might soothe her mind to focus on a task, something simple and repetitive, such as fastening on a button. She found her sewing box and took the jacket to the seat below the window, where the pear tree with its ripening fruit moved slightly in the wind. It was a bright autumn day, so clear that each veined leaf, each frost-killed vine, lay bare and etched itself upon the eye.

  He had left the jacket rolled into a ball; it was rumpled and covered with dust. She put her finger into her brass thimble, shaped like a ring, and threaded her needle with the familiar grasshopper-colored silk. She found the right place, then pushed the needle through the fabric and picked up the button.

  Ever since Li Ang’s first promotion, she had felt a vague threat; now the uneasy feeling, so long denied, breached her calm. The promotion, although a welcome one, had brought about a change between them, a lowering of her status, and although she might continue to bear him healthy children, bear him a son, the son would only cement her present position. Soon he’d be promoted again. She could see no way of reclaiming her old status.

  Now the veil was pulled from her eyes. It was like being a new bride, stepping out of the jolting, terrifying ride of the marriage palanquin and seeing, for the first time, the agent of her fate. She thought of how Li Ang had appeared to her in the early days of their marriage: charming, pleasing, the graceful span of his dark shoulders outlined against the pillows. He had seemed so easy to get along with, sleek and smiling, like a happy guest. A man to be viewed with fondness and a little disdain. She had come to see her husband as sweet and vulnerable—a little clumsy at home, somewhat under her power, and desiring her approval. Now she knew her own perceptions had eroded from misuse. She had come to factor her power into everything they did, into the way she saw herself. She had not known that her belief in her influence would backfire, that she would become so attached to the effect she had over him.

  She sewed carefully, creating a shank when she was done and tying the ends of the threads in a series of strong knots. She examined the other buttons, discovered two that hung loose, snipped them off, and sewed them back on as well. She enjoyed the feeling of the needle pushing sharp against her thimble, in and out, in and out. There, the jacket was presentable again. She needed only to have it cleaned. Junan saw what looked like a tea stain on the front. She held the jacket closer. Her pregnancy had sharpened her senses. Had she smelled something? She pressed the jacket to her face. What could it be? It seemed to her that she had caught, for half an instant, a lingering scent—a stranger’s perfume, the sickening fragrance of tea roses. Junan pulled her face away from the jacket and sat still for several minutes, careful not to do herself the violence of a sudden breath.

  A MEMORY, a feather stroke, a few words that might have been an anecdote but for the stubborn images that lingered. It had happened years ago, when her mother was still, on happy days, a lithe and beautiful woman, throwing back her head in laughter to show her teeth and fresh, white throat.

  One afternoon, Chanyi had a visit from Kao Taitai, a so-called friend who held tight to her advantages and counted others’ misfortunes. Junan could still remember wishing to shield Chanyi from this visitor with her poisonous tongue. For months Kao Taitai had been watching Chanyi closely, waiting for a fragile moment to swoop down on her.

  That afternoon she’d spoken casually, in front of the others.

  “I know a girl. She’s just the thing for him. And she is like a child, easy to control. It’s better to find him one yourself than let him choose.”

  That evening, Chanyi had shut herself into her room. It had been late autumn, with the sun sinking fast and then a pale broth of moonlight glowing on the wall. Junan had crept to her mother’s door and listened to her crying.

  What had become of Kao Taitai? It was quite probable that she had not left Hangzhou. Perhaps someday Junan would run into her. This idea made her curiously afraid. She had not thought of the woman in years—she hated her. But would Kao Taitai remember her? Junan thought with some relief that she had grown very tall and might not be recognized. Everyone remarked on her height and shoulders. “My strong one,” Chanyi had called her. To her horror, now, tears were in her eyes.

  Her body heaved with an anxiety so rank it soured her breath. Her vigilance had failed her. Now, without warning, she felt herself being swept into the danger she had always known was there but had so far been able to avoid. It had lain in wait: a cave, a mouth of darkness. It was as if suddenly she had woken up and found herself on a raft, swirling down an inexorable river toward that darkness.

  Whom could she trust?

  She was on her feet and near the open door. Where to go? The house was filled with people. She couldn’t escape; she couldn’t hide. The pregnancy had made her body slow with rich blood. For all the working of her heart, her hands and feet tingled. Her breath came in gasps. She couldn’t bear to sit or stand. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, seeking darkness in midday. This desire was intolerable. It recalled the scent of her mother’s skin, a pale curve of cheek, a gentle hand upon the back of her neck; it was like a longing for death.

  She forced open her eyes. She stood facing the window to the back garden. The jacket lay where she had dropped it on the window seat. Just beyond it, through the glass, stood the old pear tree, its long bo
ughs drooping like hands, laden with late fruit. For a long moment its remaining leaves shone in the autumn light, and not a breath of rustling wind disturbed the sight of it. She could not bear to take her eyes away, to hear the sound of a rotten pear splitting against the stone path.

  Someone was speaking her name. “Junan.”

  Then once again, more quietly. “Junan.”

  She pulled her dazzled eyes away from the window. A blue frame danced into her vision.

  “Junan, what is it?”

  Gradually the blue subsided. Yinan stood inside her room. She had closed the door and stood with folded hands.

  She wore the rough black pinafore she put on for practicing her brushstrokes. She had tied her hair away from her face so that it would not fall onto the page, and the cotton scarf exposed her naked ears. Junan squinted. “What do you want?”

  “The door was open. You looked so strange. Are you sick?”

  “I have a headache,” Junan said. “I strained my eyes.”

  “You dropped your thimble.”

  The thimble lay in the middle of the room. Yinan picked it up. When Junan didn’t reach for it, she set it on the window seat and stood before Junan uncertainly. “It’s time for supper.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I will bring you a bowl of broth.”

  “I told you, I’m not hungry.”

  At the sharp sound of Junan’s voice, Yinan’s gaze flickered, once. Junan knew she was about to turn and go. But no, she mustn’t leave. It was time for Junan to speak. “Meimei,” she said finally. “There is something I want you to do for me.”

  “Yes, Jiejie.”

  Junan took a deep breath.

  “What is it, Jiejie?”

  “I have decided to move the family to Chongqing.”

  Yinan’s mouth opened but she said nothing.

  Junan listened to her own dry words. “Before I can go,” she said, “I’ll have to wait until this child is old enough to travel safely. And there are arrangements to make.” She took another breath. “Meimei, I want you to go to the new capital this spring and keep your brother’s house for him. I’ll find a way to get you out. Help keep him preoccupied until I’m able to come after you.”

  “By myself?”

  “I promise I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  Yinan did not answer.

  “You will fly,” Junan said, “to reach Chongqing as comfortably as possible.”

  “In an airplane?”

  Junan sat down, put on her thimble. She didn’t look up when Yinan left the room. She recalled the summer evening only the year before when they’d discussed Yinan’s idea that some countries were like men and some like women. She had seen Li Ang’s amusement, his silent laugh issuing a puff of smoke. Yinan was growing up. She would preoccupy Li Ang, or occupy him, well enough. For a moment Junan wished to call her back, but she found that she had lost her ability to speak. She reassured herself: Now, at least, I know what will happen. It will be under my control.

  She refused to cry. She braced herself and felt her body wracked with every breath. It would be under her control. Her shoulders shook. She held fast to both knees to still the quiver in her hands, but then her arms began to tremble, harder, shaking deep inside her elbows: first her arms and then her knees, until her fingertips were numb. She sat alone in her room, late into the evening, letting the darkness close over her like a promise.

  Chongqing 1938–40

  CAPTAIN PU HAD WARNED LI ANG: CHONGQING WAS A BLACK heart of smuggling and corruption. Everyone he met would ask for bribes. Li Ang had another way of looking at it. To him, a bribe was like a little soup sloshing out of a bowl. If some of the soup was lost, it didn’t change the fact that most of it went where it belonged. His new job was to help General Sun supply his eight divisions. If a few items disappeared along the way, Sun wouldn’t notice. It was like a game. Like concealing one’s intentions in poker or mahjong. Perhaps Li Ang’s gift with games was the reason Sun had wanted him for this job.

  Captain Pu had especially warned him of General Hsiao Jun, who even in those early days controlled the wartime capital through smuggling and blackmail. Li Ang wasn’t concerned. Hsiao was the head of the military supply headquarters, and Li Ang’s work required that he ingratiate himself with this man. He had no doubt they would get along; he’d never met a man or woman whom he could not persuade to like him. He set about befriending Hsiao. When he played cards with him, he made sure to lose half of the time by a close margin; when he arranged delivery of supplies, he brought Hsiao the odds and ends. He saved painkillers for Hsiao’s bad back and nylon stockings for Hsiao’s wife. When General Hsiao personally asked him if he might join a few other officers in a small dormitory raid upon some student radicals, Li Ang said yes.

  THE RAID TOOK place near dawn on a Saturday morning. Members of the outlawed student union had been overheard at a teahouse and tailed to their rooms, where their lit windows had identified them. The officers would stake out and enter the dormitory, trap the radicals in their rooms, and take them to the Army prison. It was a simple plan, and the operation would be finished before morning classes. The radicals would vanish in the night.

  Li Ang was told to wait at the back door. He could tell from the odor of flung dishwater that this door led to the pantry and the kitchen. The students seldom used this back way, and it was through the kitchen, he suspected, that they might try to escape. Li Ang stood at his post. Soon it was close to dawn. The dormitory blocked the eastern sky from view, but all had slipped from black to gray, lightening the world in even tones, so that the leaves and bark of the nearby camphor tree, the slate gray of the tiled eave, and his own brass buttons were defined in shades of dust. A few neglected, stiffened potted plants sat on the stoop. A dozen cracked clay roofing tiles were piled neatly on the stairs. Li Ang heard the somber clang of the missionary bell, and from the street, the creak of a cart and the faint voice of a man talking to his water buffalo. The rumors of attack had dissipated and the farmers were making their way back in despite the heat. Li Ang had been standing for so long that the blood had thickened in his feet, but he didn’t falter. This trick of standing was a game to him. Other soldiers, unsupervised, would begin to clench their muscles; sometimes a man would wobble or even fall. To Li Ang, the standing clarified his mind, so that he saw the sharp edge of a broken tile, or the path and corners of an alley, with unusual clarity and detail. At times like these, he felt within himself a keen physical intelligence. It came into his feet and hands and shoulders. Now, waiting, he felt as if he were a hawk hovering high up in the luminous sky; he saw each shape upon the ground, and he could mark each shadow, each movement of the mouse below.

  He heard one muffled creak and then a few quick bangs—the door being swung open—and the quick, heavy steps of men in boots, entering the building. He could hear their steps diverging. Good: they’d encountered nothing unexpected; they were following the plan. Some would fan into the downstairs rooms, seizing any suspect books and materials as they went. Several would head upstairs and trap the radicals in their bedrooms on the second floor. There were several shouts, some surprised questions, and, once, the sound of a falling chair. He listened for a full minute until he heard what he’d been waiting for.

  A faster tread, alone, close. A single person on the stairs. The sound of the doorknob turning. Quicker than thought he moved to the door and pulled it open before the young man, emerging, had taken his own hand from the knob. Li Ang seized him as he hurtled down the steps.

  “You’re under arrest,” Li Ang barked. He pushed the man into the wall; he twisted both arms behind his back and held him there, still listening. He could hear no more escapees forthcoming.

  For a moment they stood. Li Ang could see only the back of his captive’s head, the lobe of his ear. He couldn’t see the face, pushed with the cheek f
lat against the wall, but he could sense a contemplative cast upon the man, as if he were listening. His glasses had been knocked loose. Li Ang wondered where the other students had gone. Inside, the footsteps clumped back and forth. He heard the light crash of a cot and the sudden thunder of a desk. He turned toward his captive, who had remained with his cheek against the wall, his glasses hanging by one ear. For a moment the thick, round lenses glowed white, reflecting the morning sky and the boughs of the camphor tree.

  As Li Ang stood holding the young man against the building, he grew convinced that he had experienced all of this before. The smell of unwashed hair; the shape of the head, the shape of the ear. It seemed to him the moment passed so very slowly, or was this slow wonderment only the way that he recalled it afterward? He only knew there was an absolute silence. Above them, the pale sky glowed like the inside of a shell.

  “You’re under arrest,” he said, more evenly this time.

  The captive turned his head. Nearsighted eyes squinted into his face. “Gege,” he said.

  The voice was quiet, its tones familiar.

  “What?” Li Ang exclaimed. “What are you doing here? What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What are you doing, Gege?”

  “Shh,” Li Ang said, regaining his wits. There was still enough time for his brother to escape. “If you hurry—”

  Footsteps came around the corner.

  “What’s this?” It was Pu Sijian.

  Li Ang began, “There’s been a mis—”