Yomei had also thought of Liu Yalou, the bright-eyed man who used to court her persistently. Yet after their meeting in Harbin in February 1950 (he got on the train to meet with Mao), she had lost touch with him, even though he too had moved to Beijing later on. For many years Yalou had commanded China’s air force and also served as vice minister of defense. Although not as powerful as Lin Biao or Father Zhou, Yalou would have been able to help her readily. Also in his favor was the fact that he didn’t have a personal office headed by his wife like Mao and Lin Biao did, making him easier for Yomei to contact. But the passionate, energetic man had died two years earlier of liver cancer. It was true that Yomei had always given him a wide berth, yet when the news of his death was announced on the radio, she felt sad and wandered in a poplar grove outside the town of Sartu for two hours alone until the twilight thickened. The news broadcast had said Liu Yalou’s passing was a national loss, considering he was only fifty-five, but Yomei felt it was like her own loss as well, even though she couldn’t talk about it to anyone. From the radio she learned that in Beijing all the national leaders, except for Mao, attended his funeral, at which Lin Biao delivered a moving speech. More than one hundred thousand mourners gathered on the streets to bid farewell to him for the last time. Along the streets, his hearse rolled through, and some national flags flew at half-mast. In spite of Yalou’s notoriety for womanizing and for being relentless in factional fighting as Lin Biao’s right-hand man, his passing made Yomei feel aged all of a sudden, as though a page of her life had been turned. Despite herself, her eyes were swimming in tears.
She also thought of Xu Yi-xin, the first man who had touched her. Still handsome, he was also in Beijing now. For decades he had been in the foreign service, working as an ambassador to several countries: Albania, Norway, and Syria. Just the year before, he had returned to China to take the position of vice foreign minister. The other day she had seen him receiving a Vietnamese delegation in a documentary movie that showed the current news. Somehow Yi-xin looked smaller than before on the screen, a bit shriveled. Since leaving Yan’an for Moscow, she had not met him in person, but with the benefit of hindsight, she seemed to understand him better and even felt grateful that he had protected her. He was smart enough to cut ties with her as soon as Jiang Ching began living with Mao. Yomei wondered whether to write to him and ask for help, but she thought better of it, knowing that his efforts on her behalf might bring trouble to him and his family, and even to Yomei herself, because Jiang Ching might get riled up if she assumed that the two of them had been secretly intimate over the decades. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
It was already the holiday season. This year the spring festival was on January 30, which was less than a week away. No matter how mad life had become, she ought to make her home a little comfortable and festive for her daughter, who would be back soon. Without breaking any of the sealing paper, she wiped all the furniture and tidied up the house. She also made some meat jelly in a dutch oven, a dish Little Lan loved. Yomei wondered if she was already on her way home.
Little Lan boarded the train in Daqing five days before the holiday. In Harbin she would switch to the train bound for Beijing. The ride was long and crowded and exhausting. She tried not to drink liquid for fear of having to fight her way to the toilet. Fortunately she’d bought some biscuits and apples before getting on board. It took her three days to arrive at the capital.
It was still dark outside, so the girl stayed in the train station for two hours in order to let her mother sleep until it got light. Around six o’clock she started out for home on foot. The streets looked different from two years before, with some areas littered with trash-leaflets, candy wrappers, ice cream cartons, soda bottles, cabbage roots, coal cinders. On the power lines perched flocks of crows, dozing despite the waxing daylight. The birds looked frozen numb in their sleep. This was so different from the mornings in Sartu, where at this hour the air would palpitate with showers of birdcalls. As Little Lan walked along, big-character posters appeared on walls and bulletin boards. Near the former National Youth Art Theater, she saw some of the posters denouncing her parents, calling Jin Shan a foreign stooge and an incorrigible womanizer and Yomei a counterrevolutionary and an advocate of abominable bourgeois sentiments and lifestyles. One poster quoted Jiang Ching’s most recent verdict: “Sun Yomei was a wolf sleeping beside Zhou Enlai.” One even mentioned Little Lan, saying she wasn’t Yomei’s real daughter but an illegitimate child by a promiscuous actress in Shanghai. The adoption of such “a foundling, born out of wedlock,” indicated that Sun Yomei had always allied herself with the corrupt and the decadent. Indeed, she was rotten to the core and must be reformed thoroughly in this mass movement. Though Little Lan had known Yomei wasn’t her birth mother, the poster still wounded her to the quick and brought tears to her eyes. Hurriedly she turned away and headed for home.
When she arrived, she found Yomei wide-awake. Her mother hadn’t slept a wink the whole night, waiting for her.
“Thank goodness you’re back!” Yomei said to her daughter.
“What’s going on in town? Why are there so many big-character posters everywhere?”
“The Cultural Revolution is in full swing, and we’ve become targets. That’s why I didn’t want you to come back to school here.”
“Where’s my dad?”
On hearing that Jin Shan had been taken away and jailed somewhere, Little Lan burst into tears and cried wretchedly, her hand wet with tears. To her, he was a kind, indulgent father, a good man in every way. Why did they treat him as a class enemy? This was beyond her.
Yomei took out the breakfast she’d made two hours earlier—noodles with cabbage and tofu and baby shrimp in soup. She said, “You must be hungry. Let’s dig in.” She also placed a ramekin of meat jelly on the table.
Mother and daughter began eating. Yomei explained that a few days before, some Red Guards had come to ransack their home for criminal evidence and took away four gunnysacks of their things. Before leaving, they sealed their chests and desks and cupboards, so it would be inconvenient and too depressing to have Little Lan’s cousins here to celebrate the spring festival, and they’d better have the family gathering at Aunt Yolan’s home. Little Lan nodded while eating. She was groggy and could hardly keep her eyes open. So the moment she was done with breakfast, she went to brush her teeth and then got into bed. She slept for a whole day. Yomei felt happy to hear the girl snoring lightly in the bedroom.
That night Yomei told her daughter what had happened to Uncle Yang and Aunt Chee. Little Lan sobbed again. She couldn’t believe that her cousins, who used to bask in so much parental love, had suddenly become orphans of a sort. Her mother was right that they shouldn’t have the family gathering in this house, where everything would remind her cousins of their loss, and she and her mother should go to Aunt Yolan’s instead. “If we go there, we ought to bring some holiday presents for my cousins,” Little Lan said. “I wish I had brought back something we could use for that.”
“No worries,” Yomei said with a smile. “I’ve bought some new things for them.”
“I got a little gift for Bing from Sartu.”
“That’s good. I hope it will please her. She’s a big girl now, I mean mentally. She’s a precocious child.”
They went to Yolan’s home two days later, on the eve of the spring festival. In the meantime, Little Lan had bought three packs of small firecrackers for Ning, Ming, and Lai (Yolan’s six-year-old son), even though she’d never felt close to the boys. Mother and daughter went to the dorm of the science academy, which was Uncle Zongchang’s work unit. It was cold and cloudy, the sky starless, yet the city was vibrating with holiday festivities—now and then explosions of fireworks burst as if a battle was underway. The aroma of holiday cooking wafted in the air, mixed with a touch of gunpowder. Yolan’s three-room apartment was on the fourth floor of a slapdash dorm building, which had no elevator. When mother and daughter reached Yolan’s door, Yomei was huffing and puffing a bit, but she noticed that Little Lan still moved with ease in spite of carrying the big parcel of presents. She was pleased to see that the girl was stronger now—her life in the oil field must have been wholesome.
Yolan hugged Little Lan and then took the parcel they’d brought. Yomei told everyone that these presents were from Jin Shan as well. Ning and Ming each got a pair of suede boots, while Bing had a pea-green corduroy jacket. As for Yolan’s children, they each received a canvas book bag and a pair of lambskin mittens. There was also a butterfly barrette for the four-year-old girl. Then, from her tote bag, Yomei took out a roast duck wrapped in wax paper and tied with kraft string. She said to Yolan, “I picked this up on the way.”
Zongchang opened the package and chuckled while nodding his head of salt-and-pepper hair. He told Yomei, “We talked about whether to get a braised chicken or a roast duck. Luckily I bought a big chicken. Now this duck will make our dinner a feast.”
Yomei handed her sister a wad of cash—her subsidy for their brother’s three children. (For the holiday she had added an extra twenty yuan.) She said, “Let me give you this now in case I forget.” Yolan took the money without a word and put it into her side pocket, as if she were afraid the others might see it.
Little Lan presented to the three boys each a pack of firecrackers, which delighted them. She also gave Ying, Yolan’s daughter, a cloth doll, which the girl embraced with rapture. Then Little Lan handed to Bing a patch of white birch bark in a large envelope. She said, “People in the forest use this as paper. Some write letters on it.” Bing showed the smooth and glossy bark to her brothers. They were all fascinated. Even Aunt Yolan was amazed, saying she had read about birch bark in Russian novels but never seen it. Now this was really precious. She wished she could have borrowed it from Bing and shown it to her Russian literature class. This would have been an eye-opener to the students. What a pity that she didn’t teach that course anymore. The students and teachers were busy making revolution nowadays, acting as if they could subsist solely on fanatical slogans and destructive activities.
Yolan’s confession surprised Yomei, who asked, “Didn’t you go to the countryside in Leningrad? There must be birch woods in the city too.”
“I saw birch trees there of course,” Yolan said, “but I didn’t see a large piece of the bark prepared like this—like a piece of paper.”
“Too bad I didn’t bring back an extra piece,” said Little Lan.
Soon they sat down to dinner, which had six dishes, including rice porridge with dates and peanuts and assorted beans mixed in, steamed buns stuffed with red-bean paste, and boiled taro potatoes. The latter was a rarity that Zongchang had bought on the black market for triple the usual price. The boys were eating the chicken and duck ravenously. They all enjoyed the double-sautéed pork, a Sichuan specialty of Yolan’s. Apparently they hadn’t tasted much meat of late. Yolan told them not to pig out on everything for now. There’d be beef dumplings at midnight, so they ought to save some of their appetite for the first meal of the New Year. The boys said they wanted to finish dinner quickly so that they could go out and set off firecrackers. But their uncle and aunts wouldn’t let them out for fear that they might run into bullies on the streets who might rob them of their firecrackers. So the boys were allowed to join the seething and festive explosions in the neighborhood only from their balcony. They had no choice but to light their strands of firecrackers from up there, while they kept giving battle woops and delighted shrieks. Uncle Zongchang had prepared a variety of fireworks for them too, so they had plenty to play with.
Meanwhile Little Lan and Bing retired to a bedroom and chatted between themselves. Lan told her cousin that she enjoyed life in the oil field, where people were straightforward and friendly and easy to get along with. But it was very cold in the winter in Heilongjiang, and the landscape was white from late October to April. They also talked about their future plans. Bing somehow longed to become a soldier, though she was just thirteen, whereas Little Lan wanted to study medicine to become a doctor. Knowing that most colleges were already suspended in Beijing, she only hoped that schools would reopen soon. But unlike the classless furlough enjoyed by youngsters in the capital, education in Sartu continued, and students there still had schoolwork up to their chins during midterms and finals. Little Lan would have to go back soon for the spring semester. Bing said she’d probably go visit Lan in Sartu when her mother was back home again. Little Lan promised to accommodate her if she came in the summertime. Summer was more comfortable in the northeast, she told her cousin, whereas winter was no fun.
In the living room, the adults began making dumplings. As they worked around the kneading board, Yomei, with little Ying seated on her lap, told them that she had just written to Lin Biao in hopes that he might get Shih Chee out of the Red Guards’ clutches. Yolan and Zongchang were both surprised. She asked Yomei, “Do you think Lin Biao will get your letter?”
“I have no clue. I was so desperate—I just sent the letter to his Maojiawan residence.”
“His staff might intercept the letter, don’t you think?” asked Yolan.
“I had to run the risk to save Yang’s family.”
Zongchang chimed in, “I wonder why Jiang Ching had Jin Shan apprehended. Shan has never talked about her and can’t pose any threat to her at all.”
“Did he offend Jiang Ching in the old days in Shanghai?” asked Yolan.
“I don’t think so. She doesn’t seem to hold a grudge against Shan personally. He used to work under the leadership of Premier Zhou, so Jiang Ching might want to get some information about Father Zhou from Jin Shan.”
“Maybe more than that,” Yolan said. “Obviously Jiang Ching hates you to the very marrow of your bones, so she might want to get something against you from him too. In other words, she means to hurt you in every way she can. She’s such a vicious harridan.”
“Believe me, Jin Shan won’t give them any information of that kind. But what you said makes sense. That must be another reason for them to seize him. This also means I must be their real target. Well, I’m ready. Come what may.”
Zongchang shook his delicate chin. “You’re talking like you’re going to become a revolutionary martyr.”
“You must be more careful,” said Yolan. “Try to deal with Jiang Ching reasonably and perfunctorily.”
Yomei realized that she should take preemptive measures and avoid compromising Yolan and Zongchang. If they ran into trouble, Yang’s three children would have nowhere to go. So she told them, “I mustn’t come too often, mustn’t get you implicated.”
The two sisters agreed that from now on they’d meet at the Monument to the People’s Heroes in Tiananmen Square every Saturday at eight in the evening to compare notes and catch up. Zongchang also thought it was good to exercise more caution from now on.
Yomei had noticed that her daughter, already pubescent, was one and a half inches taller than before. Most of her clothes were too small now, and Little Lan needed new jackets and pants, but Yomei was short on cash at the moment, having spent the remainder of her salary for the holiday, besides giving sixty-five yuan to Yolan. Then she remembered she had a small amount in a deposit book, but it was in a sealed sideboard drawer. Together mother and daughter steamed the band of paper with a mug of hot water and then peeled it away. Yomei was thrilled to see there was still about two hundred yuan in the booklet. She went to the bank and took out the cash, and then mother and daughter set out shopping. Yomei bought Little Lan a woolen sweater, a pair of suede boots, two corduroy jackets, and two pairs of denim pants. The girl was excited to have these new clothes and the ankle boots.
Yomei told her that she had left a duffel bag at Jun’s home. In the pocket of the woolen coat was another deposit book, which had more cash in it, more than two thousand yuan. If she, Yomei, was imprisoned and Little Lan came back to Beijing, she could collect that bag from Jun, to whom Yomei had already made clear that she should surrender it only to someone of their family. So if her parents were not around, Little Lan would inherit the fine coat and the savings.
Yomei’s words made her daughter down in the mouth. The girl turned tearful and said, “Why are you talking like you’re going to prison or somewhere dangerous? Please wait for me at home. Remember I’ll come back for medical school.”
“That’s my dream for you too. Of course I’ll stay well and take good care of your dad when he’s back.”
“Do you think he can endure all the abuse in jail?”
“He’s tough inside and will survive. He knows I love him and am waiting for him at home, so he’ll always have hope.”
“I feel awful about Uncle Yang, though.”
“Keep in mind that neither your father nor I will ever commit suicide. If we don’t survive, that means people have laid their hands on us.”
Little Lan left for Sartu the following weekend, bringing with her two tins of White Rabbit toffees and a sack of assorted preserved fruits for the Nius, the family that had taken her in at the oil field. The girl had promised to write Yomei more often, at least every other week. She already looked willowy, pretty like her birth mother. She would definitely grow into a beauty. Yomei was glad that Little Lan wasn’t interested in theater or cinema at all. In this country, it was always safer to remain common and average. That must be why Uncle Zhu Deh had made his only son drive a locomotive. People all knew the bird that stuck its head above others would get shot first, but still few were content to stay ordinary and inconspicuous. Life shouldn’t be tiresome and fearsome like this, obscured by shadows and secrecy. It should be more expansive and more liberating, imbued with light.