Inheritance Page 13

  “What do you mean?

  “I’m leaving town,” he said. “I’ve been thinking of it for quite some time, and I no longer have a reason not to. There are changes happening in this country. The people are beginning to learn that they need not be bullied.”

  “You’re leaving.”

  “Yes. At least until next year.”

  Later that evening, as Li Ang walked home from dinner at General Hsiao’s house, he reviewed the conversation and wondered if there was anything he might have said to dissuade Li Bing from his plans. He didn’t know.

  Around him he could hear the humble, restless noises of a nighttime city overflowing with several hundred thousand extra people. The crack of a hammer striking a wooden stake into the ground. The sounds of thousands of small fires spitting small sparks, heating thousands of kettles or tin cans filled with water for tea. A thousand quiet conversations. Li Bing was leaving town. Li Ang remembered his brother’s words. He had called Hsiao a bully, another Sun Chuan-fang. “You were always stronger . . . you never had to watch . . . Do you remember, back in Hangzhou, right after we had moved there, that neighborhood boy, Chang?”

  He remembered again the square, doughy face and pitiless eyes. The fight had happened perhaps a year after their parents’ death. They had just been sent to Hangzhou and moved into their uncle’s house. At that time, it happened Hangzhou was under control of the warlord Sun Chuan-fang, and on the streets, the neighborhood bullies copied him.

  On the evening of the fight, Chang arrived with two other boys. Li Ang remembered Li Bing’s frightened voice from high up in his uncle’s loft. “Gege, run!” But Li Ang took them on. Li Bing clattered down to help. Of course, Li Bing was nothing; one of the big boys held his puny arms as he bawled.

  “Submit!” Their rough voices summoned Li Ang. “Submit!” But he did not. He knew that holding out would earn him their respect. He remembered the odd and distant sense of his own hand bruising, his own rib cracking in his chest. He watched his good fist colliding into Chang’s big, hard nose. The bright, triumphant spurt of blood. The sound of Chang breathing hard through his mouth. Then finally the honorable release of his brother. Li Bing’s eyes were squinched red; his face was streaked with snot and tears. “You fool! You should have stopped!” he cried. “You could have been killed!” Li Ang hadn’t thought of how it might have felt to watch. Now the memory of Li Bing’s high voice rang in his ears.

  Li Ang turned up his own dark, deserted street. The moonlight cast the bleak shadow of his building on the road. For some days now, he had envisioned a future with the Hsiao family. The powerful general, his patron, would have been his father-in-law, and Hsiao Taitai his mother-in-law; it would have been like having an entirely new family. The idea that they were pulling the wool over his eyes—that he would be, essentially, considered a dupe and a fool by all—changed things. But he had grown accustomed to his fantasy. The world seemed less open, less grand, his life less assured, without it.

  In the dark entrance, on the table, lay an envelope.

  12 February 1938

  My Dear Husband,

  In the past few months, I have been thinking about the way in which you must seek food and company in the homes of others. I would not want you to do without these things, and yet I want to obey your desire that I remain with the children in Hangzhou, so I am sending my sister to Chongqing to keep your household. I have asked her if she would kindly run the house in my absence. She has always been very obedient to me and is more than willing to oblige; furthermore, I think that the current state of affairs is bad for her health. I think that a quiet, domestic, provincial life is what she has always needed. In order to absolve your difficulties as soon as possible, I have sent her to you via airplane. She should arrive shortly after you receive this.

  Your obedient wife,

  Junan

  TWO DAYS LATER, LI ANG ENTERED THE FLAT AND SENSED immediately that Yinan had arrived. When Mary opened the door, the new scent inside filled him with dread.

  Yinan sat in the front room, waiting beside her trunk as if she were a parcel that had been delivered and left near the entrance to be inspected.

  His spirits failed him. “Welcome, Meimei,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I hope your journey wasn’t difficult.”

  “Gege.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. He found himself wondering, as he always did, how it could be that the polished, poised Junan could have such an inarticulate sparrow of a sister.

  “She arrived this morning,” Mary said with a trace of weariness. “I showed her the room, but she said that she would wait until you told her what to do.”

  Mary was clearly disappointed with their visitor, who had not shown herself to be an impressive woman in style, authority, or conversation.

  “Would you like anything to eat?”

  Yinan shook her head.

  “She hasn’t eaten all day,” said Mary. “She took a bath but she said she would wait to eat until you arrived.”

  “It’s all right,” Li Ang told the maid. “You can go now.” She vanished into the kitchen. Li Ang arranged a polite expression onto his face and approached his guest.

  When he came closer, he could smell fresh soap and see the grooves from the comb that pulled the hair tightly away from her face.

  “Junan wrote to me that you might feel better here,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were coming so soon. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you when you arrived.”

  “I’m all right. Thank you for having me.”

  “I thought that you could stay in the extra room. Would you like to see it?” She nodded. He picked up her metal trunk, unfortunately heavy. Silently she followed him; he opened the door and showed her in. He hadn’t remembered how small it was. He was relieved to notice, outside the narrow window, a ragged scrap of camphor tree. He smiled, nodded, and backed out of the door.

  A few days later, he returned home to a strong burning smell in the house. He found Yinan in the kitchen, wandering among the dishes, wok, and earthenware steamer.

  “Where is Mary?”

  “Her friend is sick. I told her I could cook.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “My business takes me away from home most evenings. When I am due for dinner, I’ll tell Mary. You shouldn’t cook anything.”

  “Junan told me to be useful.” Still she kept her eyes down.

  “Your sister wouldn’t want you to tax yourself.”

  “She told me you would eat at home if I were here.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I rarely eat at home.” He felt angry with Junan, who had no right, from such a distance, to decide what he would and would not do for dinner. He glanced warily at the table. There was a bowl containing chunks of rice—clearly she had failed to do something to the rice that would make it steam evenly—and some green beans that appeared to be charred and falling apart. Near the stove sat a small bowl of unrecognizable raw meat.

  “I forgot I had to make everything be ready to eat at the same time,” she said.

  “Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything,” he told her. “Your sister’s concern was well-meaning, but ill-founded. I’m happy here, and it is pleasant to have your company, but there isn’t any need for you to keep house.”

  As he sat at the table and attempted to choke down what she offered, he realized that it had been ludicrous of Junan to assume that he or anyone would want to eat what Yinan cooked. She had done nothing in Hangzhou but sit in her room, making paper birds, reading, or playing with her inks and paints.

  The next morning he told Mary to prepare dinner for Yinan but not for him. He continued his socializing most nights at the Hsiaos’, and the three of them settled into a routine. Yinan and Mary were like two women trying to keep house for a bachelor. Whenever he tried to speak to Yinan, out of awkward feelings
of guilt and responsibility, their conversations were filled with silences.

  In the mornings, Yinan rose very early and made breakfast and he, coming downstairs to the places laid at the table, felt obliged to sit and eat it. The meal was disconcerting always. He had never thought before about the way that good food—solid and well-made home food—didn’t draw attention to itself, while bad food couldn’t be ignored. Her breakfast was somewhat burned and at the same time somewhat raw: she had difficulty even warming some buns from dinner the night before. A good meal companion also provided company and entertainment without calling attention to herself; Yinan did none of this. She spoke little and stared directly at a spot on the table as if it were embedded with a Buddhist prayer for enlightenment. When he set down his chopsticks she glanced up with an alarmed expression, as if she hadn’t expected to see him there.

  IT WAS SEVERAL weeks before he became aware that there was something on her mind. In Hangzhou she had worked busily with her books and calligraphy. Now she sat idle and her silences lingered. He purchased some brushes and fine paper at ridiculous prices and brought them home, but she only left the soft, white rolls of paper on the table in her room; he could see them there untouched when he passed. He questioned Mary, and the maid only shrugged; there was a curl of scorn to her mouth. “How would I know what she does? All day she sits in there with the door closed.”

  In early summer, when the bombing raids began, he paid Mary to sleep in the apartment at night. This ensured that someone would be there to take Yinan to the bomb shelter if he was out. Still, he felt guilty for staying out late. The bombs frightened his visitor. She took to drifting about on cloudy nights, when it was safe. He sometimes sensed her footsteps near the door. Once, returning late, he saw the tail of her nightshirt vanish into her room.

  Li Ang found himself missing Junan. If she were there, she might have ordered Yinan to do something, or otherwise managed Yinan into contentment. But Junan wasn’t there, and Li Ang felt unwilling to let her know that he had done such a poor job of settling Yinan in.

  He had only a few clear memories of Junan discussing her sister, whom she treated a bit like one might treat an affectionate and backward child. Shortly after their wedding, Junan had told him Yinan had once foreseen him in a dream, that Yinan had once had a dream about a soldier at the window. He’d made a joke of it. “You women,” he’d said. He reached out and pulled a strand of Junan’s hair across the pillow—lightly, because she had a low tolerance for teasing. “Have you ever noticed that the people who have these magical dreams are always women?”

  “I didn’t say she could tell the future. But she is sensitive. Sometimes she surprises me.”

  He began to suspect that it was somehow his fault that Yinan was in the house. For one thing, when he had mentioned to Hsiao Taitai that Yinan had arrived, the woman had smiled faintly and said something about Junan sending someone to keep watch over him. The idea was, of course, ridiculous, but in the weeks after Yinan’s arrival he felt an impulse to hide himself. Her eyes were too clear. It was as if this sister, sitting in her room, had the ability to see through walls. He wasn’t worried that she might tell tales about his activities. He was more afraid of what she might see inside of him. She would note the pattern of his days and know that they meant nothing. She would see that he was lost.

  ONE EVENING LI ANG didn’t go out to dinner but headed home. What would he say to her? He felt obligated to get some information. He wouldn’t force her say anything she didn’t want to tell him, but he must somehow learn how things could be made better.

  The apartment sweltered in the heat; he stood before her closed door for more than a minute. This would not do. He knocked on her door.

  “Come in.”

  She was sitting near the window, where there was most hope of a breeze, slowly working with a pair of scissors on white paper. Her gentle profile was outlined in the clear light. He grew aware of himself, grotesquely large and sweating. He backed toward the doorway.

  “Meimei, you’re unhappy. What is it?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is there anything I can do? Would you like to come out with me and meet some of the people here?”

  “No, please, Gege. I’d rather sit and think.”

  “I’m sure that more sitting and thinking is the last thing that your sister would want for you.”

  She turned her face toward the window. “And what do you think my sister wants for me?”

  “Well,” he fumbled, “I’m sure she wants you to relax here and be comfortable.”

  “She doesn’t understand.”

  “I will tell Junan you want to go back home.”

  She replied gently, as if he were the one who needed comforting, “Don’t worry, Gege. I’m all right here.”

  “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  She put down the scissors. For a long moment he feared that she might actually tell him what was on her mind. Then she looked down at the white paper in her hands. “Take this,” she said, thrusting the paper at him. “Please go away.”

  Puzzled, he left. Clearly, she missed her sister, but there was something wistful and charged in the way that she had looked out of the window—some other emotion in her face that he could almost define. He, too, had felt it when he left Junan—a feeling similar to loneliness, yet similar to freedom.

  Halfway down the hall, he looked at the object in his hand. It was a folded triangle, cut and slashed through with intricate designs. Clumsily, he unfolded the paper. It was cut in a hundred tiny lines almost as fine as eyelashes. The white six-sided flake lay in his palm, looking fragile enough to melt away, so much effort spent on a trifle. As Li Ang stared at it, it made him think of cold: a cold he had heard about from men who’d grown up in the north, a cold deeper than a thousand Yangtze winters.

  THE NEXT DAY, he sent a telegram.

  JUNAN. POSSIBLE TO SEND YINAN HOME? LI ANG.

  Every hour he checked for her response. But he couldn’t even be certain that Charlie Kong had managed to hold on to his telegraph. All afternoon he waited; the silence was unbearable. He imagined simply putting Yinan on an empty supplies plane, but it would be risky, not to mention unkind, to send her away. That evening, arriving home, he saw an envelope and seized it up, expecting Junan’s neat and flowing handwriting. But it was not from Junan. The script was even more viscerally familiar. He had to squint in order to make out some of the characters, as the letter had been written in ink, and had gotten wet along the way. It was seared with water, the characters drifting on the page.

  Dragon Boat Festival 1940

  Gege,

  I have now been living in the village for two months. I planned to write to you as soon as I settled down, and I apologize for taking so long. Believe me: writing to you is the first personal thing I have done since recovering from the journey. I have time to write only because today is a holiday. But there are no boats and no dragons here; the villagers form a parade and push each other into the water. It is as if they think that if one of them were drowned, the gods might be appeased and might give us some relief from the continuing scarcity.

  After much hardship, we arrived here. Some of us, myself included, were hoping for rest, but the conditions are more destitute than any I have experienced. As a consequence of this, I have become a different person.

  When you are truly hungry, when you have worked your day so hard that you barely have the strength to piss, you don’t find it in your head to think about poems, or literature, or what we consider the higher things in life. After living here, I understand it is no wonder that the countryside is backward. I used to believe that it was populated by ignorant people, almost animals, and indeed this could be said to be true, but the larger story is more significant. I still pity these people, for existing for centuries, living their lives with no hope—but I know that they have been
taught to see themselves this way. Despite the poverty and difficulty in scratching out even the slightest living from this land, the indifferent KMT taxes these farmers in the food, taking it from their own mouths and draining them of the strength to make more. In this way, I have found myself beginning to think of the Communist revolution as a battle against the fatalism forced upon the people by their rulers over thousands of years. Now we will stand up, and unite, and take our lives into our own hands.

  It is happening already. There are several women here with us, and they are treated the same as anyone else, and called Comrade like all of us; truly the conditions force everyone to work and it is clear how deserving women are. Believe me, there are changes taking place in this country, changes that you would never dream of. I hope that someday, when we have thrown off the terrible oppression of the Brown Dwarfs, you will have the opportunity to understand the meaning of what it is I am describing here.

  I work in as much poverty as they do, although because of my ability to read and write, and my experience with figures, my chores are different: I do not do as much backbreaking toil, and although our rations are the same, it is this absence of physical labor that is enabling me to have the energy to do a few other things, such as write this letter, and help to set the writings of Comrade Mao Zedong onto the page. Sometimes I get less sleep than the others, but I do the work willingly. It is only now, I think, that I truly understand the need in this country for the changes and ideas that inspire my comrades.

  I wish you all the best.

  Li Bing

  Li Ang weighed the frail letter in his hand. The plain wall of his temporary home loomed far away. He felt that he did not know anyone in the world.

  That night, he couldn’t find a comfortable sleeping position. He lay stiff and weary; an ache in his throat brought him close to despair. He thought with longing of his uncle’s stationery shop, where he and Li Bing had spent so many hours arguing and playing go. How had he let his brother leave? At least he should have forced him to accept something when he left town—money, perhaps, or a good warm coat. He wondered when his brother would return, and whether they would meet again.