The Yellow Papers (33 page)

He'd tried to compartmentalise his past into neat little boxes that he could lock and store deep in his mind, never to open again. Korea. Too agonising even to think about. Just pack and lock away. China and Tulip Force – the irony there was too great – pack it away and don't think. Shanghai. Another world, another life. Hedonistic. Sensuous. But to think of Shanghai meant to think of Ming Li, and he couldn't think of Ming Li. She was lost to him forever in China, and maybe that was just as well. Could he ever make love to her again? Would it be different with her? Could he ever look at her beautiful face and not see Hana superimposed? Better not to think about it. Too raw. Too painful. Pack and lock and store deep. So deep it will never resurface.

But even packing away those memories hadn't been enough. There was always something – a sound, an odour, a comment – that would unlock one of those neat little boxes and torment him all over again. So he'd decided sell the house. Move on. Forget Korea. Forget Chen Mu. Forget Ming Li.

Though he'd refused the offer from the University College, it had made him reconsider his options, and helped him find a place at the University of Adelaide instead, lecturing on Asian Politics. He'd felt a moment of panic when they offered him this, and argued he'd prefer another subject, but in the end it was that or nothing, and he had to go with what he knew and what was available. The subject was so broad – he'd convinced himself he could cope. India. He could start with India. He would take things one day at the time. A new city, a new house and new people, well away from the eastern coast. That would help. And if he found he couldn't cope, he'd do something else.

‘There's a casserole in the oven. Should be ready. Let's eat now then I can wash up and pack this lot up as well, and that'll be it. Want to set the table?'

Edward smiled. Since becoming a mother, his daughter thrived on organising other people, but she meant no harm.

‘I can do that, Miss Bossy Boots.'

‘I know you don't want me to say it, but I still think you're being cruel.'

Edward pushed back his empty plate and pulled his cup of coffee towards him. Cruel? What did Charlotte know of cruel? In many ways she was still an innocent. He could tell her about cruel …

‘All right, don't talk to me then! But that man practically brought you up. You know he did. Now he's old and nearly blind and he's dying. And he wants to see you. How can you say no, just like that? Sometimes I just don't know you anymore, Dad. I really don't.'

‘You don't understand.'

‘I
do
understand – I'm not totally stupid. I know Korea must have been horrible. I know you were taken prisoner and that the guards were Chinese. I saw how you were in that hospital. But come on, Dad, that was three years ago. It's over! You can't blame every Chinese person for what happened to you. You've got to get over it!'

Edward wanted to slap her. Hard. Get
over
it? Could she really think like that? Did she really believe you could say
okay, war's over, let's forget all that happened?
Could she really be so insensitive? So shallow?

‘Don't look at me like that; I really mean it, Dad. You told me over and over again Chen Mu was like a father to you.
He
wasn't in Korea.
He
didn't do whatever it was that was done to you. Why can't you see that?'

‘I think you've said enough, Charlotte.'

‘No, listen to me—'

‘I said enough!'

‘Fine. Don't listen. I'll be quiet. But I want you to think of one thing. Before you dismiss Chen Mu, before you turn your back on him now that he needs you, ask yourself this: were you – and by that I mean
all
of you, the Australians and the English and the Americans – were you so bloody perfect in Korea? How did you lot treat the Koreans? The Chinese? Answer me that, Dad. What did
you
do to
them?'

He kicked the sheet and blankets off and tossed, exhausted yet unable to sleep, unable to block out Charlotte's words.
Answer me that, Dad. What did you do to them?
He didn't want to think about what he'd done in Korea. He didn't want to think at all.

He turned on the bedside lamp and looked at the time. Three thirty. Too early to get up. Turned off the light. He had a long drive to Adelaide tomorrow. Like it or not, he had to get some sleep. Think of something pleasant. What? His granddaughters. There were three now. Little Elizabeth – all pink and soft and smelling of milk and talcum powder. Such a big name for such a little soul. Elizabeth. Beth. Yes, that's what he'd call her, though Charlotte would probably object. Beth and Maggie, but then Sophie would want a special name too. What could he call her? He was too tired to think of a name just now. He could tell her a story instead. She always wanted stories, that one. He'd make up a new one for her.

Granddad, tell me a story. Tell me another one. Please, Granddad?
Okay. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. No, not a princess. There was a …
A bunny rabbit, Granddad! A bunny rabbit!
Yes, a rabbit. Sophie loved rabbits. Once upon a time there was a bunny rabbit who loved carrots. Every day he would eat his carrots until one day he had no more to eat. None at all. ‘That's no good,' thought the rabbit, ‘what will I do now?', but a little brown sparrow told him of a paddock full of carrots not far away. So the little rabbit hopped away, down the lane and over the hill. By the time he got to the paddock it was getting dark. The little rabbit was worried to be away from home so late, but he really wanted those carrots. So he hopped into the paddock, and was just about to pull a fat juicy carrot out of the ground when a shadow spread across the rows. The rabbit turned and there, towering over him, was a huge scarecrow. A scarecrow with the face of a monkey. The rabbit screamed and ran, but the paddock swelled and rose, becoming rocky pinnacles around which huge black crows circled. The rabbit ran into a cave, trying to get away, and the floor of the cave melted, turning to water that swirled around his feet then froze again, freezing him to the ground, freezing his fur into needles of ice that pierced his flesh whilst on rocky ledges around the cave Korean women laughed and yelled at him to confess as they cut their hearts out with slim-bladed knives and gave them to Ming Li who threw them in a woven basket where each exploded in a flash of phosphorous. The monkey-faced scarecrow laughed and scooped out handfuls of flaming maggots which he slowly spread over Ming Li's body and she moaned with pleasure whilst a cacophony of bugles and whistles reverberated around the cave walls.

Edward sat up, stifling a cry. Rivulets of sweat wriggled down his shivering body. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and lit a cigarette, drawing deep. The sooner he got to Adelaide, the better. He needed a drink.

In these predawn hours the house no longer looked familiar. Tea chests and boxes stacked on top of each other were silhouetted against bare walls. He moved from room to room, his hand skimming walls and packing containers – though he no longer needed a cane, he lacked confidence in the dark. When he came to the kitchen he turned on the light. Though everything had been packed, Charlotte had left the kettle and the makings of coffee on the kitchen bench, but he was no longer thinking of making coffee.

She had placed it in the centre of the kitchen table, on its own, on top of its box. A translucent apple-green shard from a past he had forced himself to forget. It burrowed deep into his memory, shredding his defences as easily as his knife had slipped between men's ribs.

He sat at the table, shivering, staring at the delicate jade brush-rest. The clock on the kitchen wall tick-tocked the seconds.

Slowly, hesitantly, he ran his finger along the sculpted edge of the lotus leaf.
While firm, it will not wound, suggesting duty …
Was that Charlotte's message – that it was his duty to visit Chen Mu? His finger outlined the lotus flower bud. The light outside the kitchen window lightened to a predawn grey. A bird chirped, then was silent. He ran his finger over the conical seedpod, feeling the tiny pointed seed heads. He remembered a little boy running after a Chinese gardener.
Wait for me, Chen Mu! Wait!
Chen Mu sitting cross-legged opposite him, asking the Chinese words for a rice bowl. A clay jar. He heard the slow clip-clop of the milkman's horse coming up the street, the clatter of milk bottles. Remembered Chen Mu cycling the roads of Macoomba during blackout. Chen Mu absorbing his anguish, his despair at never seeing Ming Li again. Absorbing, accepting, never judging. The milkman's horse passed the house and stopped two doors down. Never judging. Would Chen Mu still not judge if Edward were to tell him how many Chinese he'd killed? If he were to admit that there were times when feeling the glide of his knife slitting a man's throat had been an almost erotic experience? Edward could barely admit to himself the strange intimacy he'd felt when grappling with an enemy. These thoughts were unacceptable, even to himself, so why did he think of that now? And what about the innocents? The women and the children he'd killed? What would Chen Mu think if Edward were foolish enough to tell him, he who'd led such a sheltered life? For a moment he wished he could behave like his daughter and her husband, like all those who hadn't been to war, who believed war could come and go without changing men's hearts, without mutating men's souls.

Edward picked up the brush-rest and laid it in the palm of his hand. He lifted it towards the light, repeating the gesture of long ago.
I would have given it to my eldest son, had I children. I want you to have it
. He placed the little jade brush-rest back into its silken nest.
It could not possibly go to anyone else
. He sighed. Replaced the lid on the little box.

Maybe he should go see Chen Mu – for the sake of his relationship with Charlotte, if for no other reason. The old man was dying, she'd said. Surely he could manage a short visit. There was no rush to get to Adelaide; he could pay the removalist to hold his things for a day or two. It would please his daughter and close that part of his life forever. Charlotte was big on closure. Another little box, another lock. He should be able to manage that. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had been close to the man once. That had to mean something. Had meant something. Did it still? No, he couldn't weaken. Not now that he had his emotions under control. But surely he was strong enough to visit the man and still control his emotions. Maybe Charlotte was right; maybe he did owe him that much.

26

He reminded Edward of a little old Chinese mouse. Propped up slightly in bed, surrounded by pillows, Chen Mu dozed, his glasses slipped to the end of his nose. His hair was now all grey except for a white tuft in the centre, and a few white hairs sprouted from his upper lip and chin, giving the impression of whiskers.

‘He sleeps most of the time now,' the woman who'd introduced herself as Betty Ingram told Edward. ‘His mind wanders a bit, when he's awake. But he's comfortable.'