The Vagrants (20 page)

At the moment Dafu wept into his pillow, parental worries plagued many more hearts outside the hospital. A mother who had just helped her panicking daughter with her first period could not close her eyes next to her snoring husband. She remembered her own mother, constantly checking the panties of all her daughters for fear they would be raped or seduced by strangers. The daughter who had escaped the sad fate envisioned by her mother had become a mother herself, and was now horrified that the ghost of her mother's fear had decided to make its home in her own heart.

In another bed in the same block, a man reminded his wife to warn their two teenage daughters not to dress up in bright colors. But it was no longer forbidden to look beautiful, his wife pointed out, defending their daughters and thinking about her own youthful years that had withered before she had ever blossomed. People would notice and talk, the father said, unwilling himself to broach the awkward topic with his daughters, who had, with their swelling breasts and fuller lips, made him avert his eyes and feast instead on other girls’ young bodies along the street.

Nini's parents did not sleep. Her father's hand on her mother's belly, which was starting to show, they talked with hope about a son, not wanting to share their dread about yet another girl. On the other end of the brick bed, Nini eavesdropped, praying to unknown gods and goddesses that they would be given a baby girl.

Jialin's mother worried too, about the remaining time in Jialin's life, but more about his three younger brothers, who had stolen her money to buy three pairs of sunglasses. Earlier that day they had come home with the shining black things on their faces, and when she looked at them she saw in their lenses six duplicates of herself, face tired and hair gray. She wondered if they were on their way to becoming the newest gang members in the city, but when she talked to her husband about this worry, he replied that it was natural for the boys to grow into men.

In the Huas’ shack, Mrs. Hua dreamed about her seven daughters. Sometimes they would come to talk with her about a newborn baby girl who did not please the husband's family, or a long-awaited son whose arrival had finally stopped another husband's beating; the younger ones talked about their orphanages, where they were too cold or too hungry or had too much labor. On this specific night the youngest daughter, born with a cleft palate and nicknamed Bunny by her older sisters, came and told Mrs. Hua that she had decided to go home; she was coming to say goodbye to her parents because the years she had lived with them were the happiest of her life. For a moment, Mrs. Hua felt the girl's breath on her cheeks, and then the girl vanished, leaving Mrs. Hua in a cold sweat. She bit her finger; the pain was real, so she was not dreaming. She lay in the darkness for a moment and started to cry. Bunny's ghost had come to say her final farewell, Mrs. Hua told her husband when he was woken up; something had happened and the poor girl was now on her way to the otherworld. Old Hua held Mrs. Hua's hand; after a while Mrs. Hua calmed down. They would never know what or who had killed their little girl, she said, and he replied that perhaps heaven had known it would be harder for the girl to live on.

EIGHT

         
A
middle-aged carpenter and his apprentice, both in their undershirts and covered with sawdust and sweat, moved their sawhorse to let Kai enter her flat. The hallway shared by the four families on the floor had been turned into a temporary workshop, and out of curiosity Kai asked which family they were working for. The harmless question, however, seemed to throw both men into instant confusion; they glanced at each other, and when the older man lowered his head, the young apprentice replied that they had been assigned a political task by the city government.

Kai frowned. Before she had a chance to question the men further, the door to her flat opened and Han smiled at her mysteriously. He had a surprise for her, he said, and told her to close her eyes. The young carpenter glanced at Kai and Han with timid curiosity, and Han told the boy to keep working, before he pulled Kai into the flat. What was it? she asked, but Han insisted that she keep her eyes closed. Kai sighed and let him hold her hand and guide her into the living room. When she was told to open her eyes, she saw in the middle of the room a huge cardboard box with a blue television set printed on it.

“When did you get out of town?” Kai asked. The only place to buy a television set was in the provincial capital, with a special permit, and even though Han had been talking about buying a TV for days, Kai thought it would take weeks before permission could be granted.

“I didn't take one step out of my office today,” Han said. “And I didn't have to spend a penny.”

Kai nodded absentmindedly. Han seemed to be disappointed by her lukewarm reaction. “It's a present,” he said. “And only three families in Muddy River got them. Guess who?”

“Your parents and the mayor, and us?”

“Nothing escapes your eyes,” said Han. “Who else deserves such a prize?”

“For the kidney transplant?”

Han smiled and said that the mayor and his wife had recommended the carpenters, as they had finished a top-quality TV stand for them just two days earlier, and he had asked that the carpenters finish by the next day. Shouldn't the neighbors be consulted before they let the carpenters use a public space? Kai asked, but Han dismissed the question and said that he believed the neighbors would feel just fine about it—the men in the three other families occupied positions not much lower than Han's, yet they were the ones who had reached their limits, as Han put it; he himself was the only one on their floor with a future.

Kai nodded, and then asked if there was other news.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Han said as the door to the nursery opened. Ming-Ming walked out on tiptoes, his hands pulled up by the nanny's hands. He looked at his parents and led the nanny toward the sofa. Han had rearranged the furniture in the living room to make room for the TV stand, and when Ming-Ming climbed onto the sofa, now close to the light switch, he reached out to turn on the light, and then off, and then on and off. Kai and Han, both preoccupied with their own thoughts, watched the baby in the blinking light.

Finally, Han made a gesture toward the nanny. Kai picked Ming-Ming up and kissed him, but he wiggled out of her arms to go to the sofa. Kai asked the nanny about the baby's lunch and then told her to dress the baby warmly and take him for a stroll around the city square. A walk before the nap? the nanny asked in surprise, and Kai answered that it was a warm day and he might as well get some fresh air.

Han stood next to the window and watched the street. “I'm sure you've heard of the situation out there,” he said, once the nanny had shut the door to the flat.

Fifteen hundred copies of the first leaflet had been distributed three nights earlier, but by noon the next day they had been torn down by the sanitation squad, and no one had mentioned it since. A couple of nights later a second leaflet showed up, this time talking not only about Gu Shan's execution but also about a democratic wall movement in Beijing. By now Kai thought it would be suspicious to pretend to be unaware of it. “The leaflets,” she said, feeling her words filled with a bitterness that only she herself could detect. She wished she had been part of what was happening in Muddy River.

“This nonsense about the democratic wall, and the talk of the dead woman, neither would be much of a headache if treated separately.”

“Why?”

Han waved a hand to dismiss the topic. Lunch was ready, he said, and they might as well enjoy a good homemade meal.

Rarely did Kai ask Han about the affairs he managed, though he had a habit of recounting his daily activities when they lay in bed at night. Kai decided to wait before asking any more questions. They sat down and ate their lunch, neither talking for a moment, and then Han cheered himself up by turning the conversation back to the new television set. It was a fourteen-inch black-and-white, imported from Japan, bigger and of better quality than the one he had originally set his heart on; the three sets had come as a surprise that morning, a gesture of gratitude, no doubt, from their powerful friend in the provincial capital.

It seemed a perfect invitation for Kai to ask questions. “Who is this mysterious friend you keep talking about?”

Han thought about this and then shook his head. “I'll let you know as soon as we find out where these leaflets are coming from.”

“Is there anything wrong?”

“Not from what I can see,” Han said, and reached across the plates of food to pat Kai's hand. “These are things you shouldn't bother yourself about. Politics is not for women. The last thing I want is for you to become my mother,” Han said with a grin. Before Kai could reply, he straightened his face and imitated his mother's speech at the May Day gathering the previous year; Kai's mother-in-law was nicknamed the “Iron Woman” behind her back by her inferiors.

Kai didn't expect Han to be aware of such talk, as he and his father were known to be admirers of the woman they shared. “You should be thankful for your mother,” Kai said. “You wouldn't have been so lucky, if not for her.”

“Oh, I love her dearly. Still, you wouldn't want our son to have a mother like her, would you?” said Han with a wink. There was a knock at the door. Kai, expecting the nanny with the baby asleep in her arms, went to the door but found Han's parents, both waiting, unsmiling, to be let in. She greeted them, and they nodded and entered the flat without a word. In a low, stern voice they told Han, who had already gone to the kitchen and poured two cups of tea for them, to come up to their flat right away.

Kai stood by the door and said farewell to her parents-in-law. Neither explained anything to her, and Han only squeezed her shoulder and told her to relax, before he ran to catch up with them. The carpenter's apprentice stopped his work and watched Kai. When the older man coughed and told him to mind his own business, he smiled shyly at Kai and went back to sanding the wood.

Han did not wait for the carpenters to finish their work before setting out for the provincial capital that afternoon. A special liaison for the mayor, Han explained when he returned from his parents’ flat; the mayor and Han's parents wanted him to be at the capital to gather firsthand information about how Beijing was reacting to the democratic wall before they could make a decision themselves about the leaflets. He did not know how long he would have to be there, Han said, his spirit unusually low. Kai imagined that he had been warned not to reveal anything to her, but when she pressed him for details, he admitted that the situation was difficult for everyone in the administration, as the central government in Beijing did not have a clear attitude toward the democratic wall. Would it mean that some change would be introduced in national policies? Kai asked. That would be the end of his career, Han answered. He looked despondent. A boy put into a man's position by his parents. Kai looked at him almost with sympathy. She touched his cheek with her palm, but even before she could find some empty words to comfort him, Han grabbed her hand, and asked her if she would still love him if he lost the game.

What was there for him to lose? she wondered, but when she put the question to him, Han only sighed and said that she was right, that it was too early to give up, and he would remain hopeful.

Kai asked for another sick leave slip from the doctor and took the afternoon off. She did not know Teacher Gu's address, but when she searched the area, the first housewife she asked about the Gus led Kai to the alley. Number
n
, the woman told her, and as a passing comment she said how miserable Mrs. Gu's life was now, with no children to share the burden of an invalid husband.

Kai knocked, and it took Mrs. Gu a while to come to the gate, a hen clucking under her arm. She must have the wrong address, Mrs. Gu said before Kai could open her mouth.

“I heard Teacher Gu was not feeling well,” Kai said. “I've come to see you both.”

“We don't know you,” Mrs. Gu said. She studied Kai for a moment and her stern face softened. “Were you the one to leave the money here?”

Money? Kai said, her confusion disappointing Mrs. Gu. Who could it be then? she mumbled to herself.

Kai looked around at the alley, empty but for an old man dozing in the sun. Could she come into the yard and talk to Mrs. Gu for a few minutes? Kai asked, and Mrs. Gu, looking skeptical, nonetheless let her through the gate. The hen cooed and Mrs. Gu released it, telling it in a conversational tone to stay in the sun so as not to get a cold. The hen sauntered away, pecking at its own shadow.

Kai brought out the copies of the two leaflets she had saved. “I came to talk to you and Teacher Gu about these,” she said.

Mrs. Gu looked at the unfolded sheets without reading them. “My husband is in the hospital,” she said. “He can't talk to you.”

They were leaflets posted on Gu Shan's behalf, Kai said, and explained that not all the people in Muddy River supported the court's decision. Mrs. Gu looked at Kai for a moment and asked sharply if she was the news announcer.

“Yes,” Kai said.

“Did you know my daughter?”

Kai told her that she had moved to Muddy River after graduating from a theater school in the provincial capital. She had always been an admirer of Shan, Kai said, but what difference would her words make?

“My daughter, she wouldn't have done your job any less well than you. She was a good singer. She was always the best,” said Mrs. Gu. She glanced at the leaflets. “Did you write those?” she asked.

She wished she had, Kai said, but no, she had done little to help.

“But you know who did it? Are they your friends?”

Kai hesitated and said yes, some of them were her friends.

“Tell your friends they are very kind,” Mrs. Gu said. “But no, we don't need them to do anything like this.” Mrs. Gu added that she was only happy her husband was in the hospital. It would have upset him had he seen the leaflets.

“But we—they—are only trying to help,” Kai said. “The mistake has to be corrected. Shan was a pioneer among us. And she would be comforted to know that friends and comrades are fighting for what she fought for.”

Mrs. Gu gazed at Kai for a long moment and sighed. She was grateful, Mrs. Gu said, to hear that Kai and her friends had not forgotten Shan. Nor had she herself, Mrs. Gu said. But she had a sick husband to tend to and there was little she could do for them, nor they for her. They were not asking for anything, Kai assured her; she said that the only reason she had come to visit the couple was to let them know that they were not alone in this world, where her daughter's memory lived on as an inspiration.

“You're very good at giving speeches,” Mrs. Gu said. Kai blushed at the comment, but Mrs. Gu seemed to mean little ill. “Shan was like that too. She was the most eloquent child,” Mrs. Gu said gently. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“And you're married? Do you have children?”

Kai replied that she and her husband had a young boy.

“And your parents, are they well?”

Her father had passed away, Kai replied. Mrs. Gu nodded without adding words of sympathy. “It's kind of you to come and see us, and to let us know how you care about Shan. I don't know your friends and what their stories are, but you are a mother and a daughter. Have you thought how your mother would feel about your doing this? Have you ever thought of her?”

Kai did not know how to answer the question. She hadn't visited her mother for a few weeks now, even though they lived within a five-minute walk of each other.

“You haven't thought of her at all, have you?” Mrs. Gu said. “Daughters are all alike. Their parents weigh little in their decisions, and I don't blame you for it. Have you thought about your son?”

Yes, Kai said; she was doing this so that her son could live in a better world. But all parents would think that way, Mrs. Gu said; they wanted to make everything better for their children, but the truth was that what they ended up doing was making their children's lives worse.

“I don't understand that, Mrs. Gu.”

“Think of Shan,” Mrs. Gu said, more vehemently now, her face flushed. “We thought we could give her the best education possible because my husband was one of the most knowledgeable people in town. But what did we do but turn her into a stranger? Your parents must have worked hard to get you a good job, but what are you doing except putting yourself in danger without thinking of them? You think you're doing something for your son, but the last thing he needs is for you to go out and talk about secret leaflets with people.” Her family was not her sole responsibility, Kai replied. Mrs. Gu stared at Kai; she felt for Kai's mother, she said, her narrowing eyes filled with gentle sadness for a brief moment, before it was taken over by a coldness. It was time for Kai to leave now, Mrs. Gu said, as her husband was waiting for her in the hospital.