Calls Across the Pacific (18 page)

Nina talked only about Roger. The fact that she had slept with two men might spoil her friend's impression of her even though Liya had read many novels by Western writers.

“You have an admirable sweetheart,” Liya said, excited for Nina. “When are you going to get married?”

“Maybe soon,” Nina lied — a white lie — so as not to disappoint her friend. According to Chinese morals, a good girl should get married. She did not want to have the same conversation with Liya she had had with her mother. Not everyone would understand. She tried instead to comfort her friend. She knew how important marriage was in Chinese culture. “I'm sure you'll meet your Mr. Right very soon. Don't give up hope. You need a person who understands you and also enjoys the books you read.”

“You're the first person who has listened to my stories with interest. Most people our age have much similar, dismal life experiences. They can't bear more. Someday, I'd like to write my stories down, though I don't know where I'll find readers who will be interested in them.

“I'm sure there are plenty of people, like me, who'll want to read your stories.”

“Really?” She smiled brightly. “My folks say I have shut my eyes to reality. They think I'm in a rut. But I can hope, can't I?”

Nina smiled back at her and then told her what she had learned on her trip to her former farm.

“Interesting,” said Liya. “At least I know there are people like me who are still striving even though we don't know what'll become of us. You know what I'll do? I am going to contact a couple of my acquaintances who have returned from the military farm in Hainan Province. Like you did with your co-workers, we too can re-connect and share our personal experiences with one another.”

The following week, Nina went to look for Yangcheng Foreign Books, the only bookstore in town that sold books in languages other than in Chinese, and she finally located it in a narrow lane with a small plate on the door. It looked as if it were hidden there to evade trouble. She stepped in and noticed a few visitors meandering among the bookshelves that lined the walls. Some rummaged through stacks of books in cardboard boxes marked, “On Sale.”

She browsed around. Most of the books were in English. Some were in French, German, Russian, and Japanese. Most of the English titles were versions of eight model plays supported by Madame Mao, as well as recently published novels and poems by contemporary Chinese workers, farmers, and army men. There were also English versions of Chinese magazines such as
Beijing Review, China Today
, and
People's China
. Entire volumes of Mao's work, poetry, and booklets occupied many of the shelves. Nina smiled to herself and thought the place should be called, “The Bookstore of Chinese books in English.” She looked at a newly published, thin pocketbook titled
Mao Tse-tung Poems
in English
and wondered why the translator had not placed an apostrophe and an “s” after Mao Tse-tung's name.

She walked over to the shelves with the most people around them. These shelves held English textbooks and dictionaries. A young man in his early twenties stood by one of the shelves with an open book in his hand. When he noticed Nina's pocketbook, he asked, “Do you like Mao's poems and understand them in English?”

“I'm trying,” she said. “What are you reading?”

He showed her the cover of his book. “English 900 Sentences. It's American English.”

“Do you listen to the Voice of America?”

“Sure. I enjoy its English 900 teaching program. Do you?”

“I did,” Nina spoke in English.

“Wow, your English is so cool,” the young man said. “You sound like a perfect English teacher.”

“I'm not. Are you a student of English?”

“I wish. I'm receiving re-education in the countryside and am self-taught. How about you? Where did you learn to speak English?”

To avoid attention, she only said, “I started learning English from the Voice of America actually.”

“Then?” the young man craved to know more.

“Then, from some teachers.”

“I dream someday I can speak English as well as you do.”

“Why are you trying to learn English?”

“I love English novels. Hopefully, I'll be able to read the originals.”

“Doesn't reading Western books cause you trouble?”

“I haven't gotten into any so far. Except for a couple of friends, nobody else knows about my interest in this.”

“I'm sure you will speak good English if you keep trying,” Nina said. She could see, through this young man, how her generation yearned to see beyond the tightly closed door that was China.

The day Nina left, her mother saw her off at the airport. She wiped the tears on her mother's face with a handkerchief and hugged her once more. “When will I see you again?” her mother asked, her voice trembling.

“I hope it won't be too long,” Nina said, and kissed her goodbye. She looked back once to wave then joined the other passengers and boarded the plane.

18.
THE SUN RISES FROM THE WEST

N
INA TOOK THE
ferry from Portland to Yarmouth and spotted Roger, in jeans and a tie-dyed
T
-shirt, standing by the exit, anxiously scanning the passengers as they stepped down onto the dock. When he finally saw Nina, Roger breathed a sigh of relief.

An hour later, they were at home, nestled together on the couch with a platter of cheese and two glasses of red wine on the coffee table in front of them.

“I am happy now,” Roger said, his hand reaching for his goblet on the table.

Nina raised her glass to him, and smiled warmly, “I am glad to be home.” They spent the rest of the night catching up, with words and with their bodies.

The following day, when Nina woke up, Roger had already left for his office. She decided to go for her customary walk along the beach. The soft red sunlight came through the thin fog over the water. It looked as though red wine had filled the bay. Seagulls and eagles slid through the air as if drunk from the wine.

It was a sleepy, peaceful morning, but the images and visions of the people and events during her journey came to haunt her, one by one. As she strolled, she drank in the ocean and shoreline in front of her, and the air, which tasted of sea salt, cleared her nose.

When she returned home, she made herself comfortable at her desk and continued with her writing project. Her mind was immersed in memories until Roger's voice sounded behind her.

“Your essay got into the
Portland Press Herald
again,” he said, handing a newspaper along with an envelope to her. “I just got this letter from our mailbox. It's from the
Herald
.” Nina looked at the title of the article in the paper, “My Father.” She had submitted the piece just before her trip. Inside the envelope was a cheque for $20 as payment for the piece. She shook the cheque playfully under Roger's nose and grinned. “Come on! I'll take you out to dinner. Let's celebrate!”

“By the way,” Roger added, helping her to her feet. “Your postcard from China reached me. It means the mail is getting through, so I think you can write to your mother and she will probably get the letter.”

That Friday, they went to a nice restaurant and feasted on lobster and very good Bordeaux. When she looked at Roger's contented face, she remembered the evening with her fellow farm workers enjoying the food they had made underneath the moonlight. Roger listened attentively as she told him all about it.

Later, in bed, her legs wrapped around his, his mouth on hers, she thought of Liya and she shivered. “Honey, is something wrong?” Roger lifted his head.

“I'm a little preoccupied. I was thinking about one of my friends in China.”

“Get the story off your chest. You'll feel better.” Roger held her in his arms while her head nestled on his chest.

“I think I would like to sing a Chinese folk song instead, and see if you like it.”

“Do you need to dress up for this performance or do you prefer to remain naked?” he asked, a cheeky grin on his face. He stroked her hair playfully.

“Just like this. Since you're my only audience, I don't even need to stand up,” she said laughing.

“Wait, let me get my guitar.” He jumped out of bed and rushed upstairs. When he came back, he leaned against the headboard next to her. With his fingers on the strings, he said, “You start. I'll follow you.”

“The song is called ‘Flowing Stream' she said, then cleared her throat and started:

The full moon rises high

My admirer is on the mountain

Like the moon shines at night

Age emits sparkling light

At the foot of the hill

A brook bubbles under moonlight

The silver ray blankets the summit

Age brightens my sight

I miss you, my true love

The breeze blows from the heights

My faraway Age,

Can you hear my chant?

Roger's guitar melody blended easily with Nina's lyrics and their music filled the room. ““It's a love song, right?,” he said, putting his guitar by the side of the bed. “Tell me what ‘Age' means.”

Nina's face glittered under the glow of the lamps. “‘Age' literally means ‘brother.'” Sensing Roger's confusion, she added, “But it has nothing to do with love between brother and sister. In Chinese folklore, a person calls her/his sweetheart ‘brother' or ‘sister.'”

“Nice, but very odd. How could I tell whether this ‘brother' is a sibling or a ‘lover'?”

“The word ‘brother' has a few different meanings. For the most part, in a song or poem, a brother or sister means ‘lover,'” she explained. “If you understood the language and culture, you would understand the meaning of the word from the context.”

He pulled her into his arms. “I can't imagine calling you ‘sister.' I don't feel like thinking of you as my sister.”

Nina giggled. “This is a cultural difference. When I hear a song with the word, ‘Age,' I envision a girl in love. When I sang this song with my old friends at the military farm, all I could think was how much I missed you.”

“You look beautiful when you sing, my darling. Call me ‘Age' if that arouses you,” he whispered into her neck as his hands explored her smooth body. Nina sighed as she wrapped her arms around him and met his lips with her own.

November 25 was Thanksgiving Day. Nina took the ferry to Portland to visit with Eileen and Bruce. Nina sat on the old couch in the living room, remembering her time in the house five years earlier. Eileen entered the room with some tea and biscuits, placed them on the coffee table, and then sat down next to Nina. “You look wonderful, Eileen. Your face is so smooth and lovely, and you don't even have any wrinkles,” Nina said.

Eileen laughed, pleased at the compliment. “My secret is drinking lemon juice.”

Bruce ran his fingers through his greying hair. “I don't think the same can be said for me,” he chuckled. “I am getting greyer every day, but I think I can still climb up on the roof and repair the shingles.”

Nina pulled some packages from her pack. “These are sticking plasters my mother suggested for you, Bruce. They should
relieve some of your joint pain and the ache in your muscles. Inside, I have translated the instructions on how to use the plasters into English.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said and opened the packet with curiosity. “I want to try one right away.”

Nina handed another packet to Eileen. “And this is for you. I hope you like it.”

Eileen opened the packet. “Oh, it's a beautiful silk blouse,” she said, caressing the smooth fabric with her fingers.

“I hope you like the colour, Eileen. There were only a few choices in the store.” Nina remembered that most of the department stores she had visited in China were half-empty. She had finally found the pretty blue blouse in the Friendship Store.

Eileen asked Nina to tell them more about her trip to China. Fascinated by her experiences, Eileen asked, “Can you come to our church's party tomorrow? I'd like more people to hear you about your trip.”

“Sure, I can do that,” Nina said. Then, with a delicate sniff, she added. “Is that wonderful aroma coming from a roasting turkey?”

“Yes, dear. It's almost done,” Eileen said. “By the way, we've invited a family to join us for dinner. They are refugees from Laos.”

“Let me help you prepare the dinner.”

“Can you make a stir-fry?” Eileen asked. “I have some green beans, some carrots, and bok choy.”

“Do you have chili?” Nina asked. “I think Laotian people like spicy food.” She followed Eileen into the kitchen and the two busied themselves with the final preparations for their meal.

When the family from Laos arrived, Eileen introduced the Tsheejs to Nina. She was surprised to see their ten-year-old daughter, Nou Kha, dressed in a multi-coloured tubular skirt and top, and wearing a silver neckband that sported several tiny, jingling bells. Nina said, “Your clothes resemble that of the Miao people.”

“‘Clothes'?” Mrs. Tsheej mumbled and turned to her daughter for help. The daughter interpreted for her mother and then replied in English, “Mom said, ‘My daughter's clothes are homemade.'”

“What you are wearing is very pretty.” Nina said slowly. “I saw similar clothes being worn by the Miao people in Yunnan and Hainan provinces. The Miao also live in other southern provinces of China. Girls and women wear many pleated skirts one over the other.” After Nou Kha interpreted this for her mother, Nina asked another question: “Do Hmong men play music with reed pipes?”

“Yes, we play,” Mr. Tsheej said in broken English. “Our ancestors are from China. Perhaps, the Hmong and Miao are the same people.”

The host and guests began their meal and talked amiably about the similarities between the two cultures. Nina's stir-fried vegetables and Mrs. Tsheej's sticky rice cakes added some exotic flavours to the traditional American turkey dinner that Eileen had prepared. When the Tsheejs learned that Nina had recently graduated from a university, Mr. Tsheej said, “We hope our daughter can go university.”

“I'm sure she can if she is willing,” Nina said.

Mr. Tsheej told them about his parents who had helped the Americans in the Vietnam War, and a year later were killed when the communists, Pathet Lao, occupied Laos. Like many of the Hmong people, the Tsheejs went to Thailand to the refugee camp there. Many Western countries, like Canada, had accepted them as refugees and they had chosen the United States. “I was a child and I saw the Americans. I hear about their country, so I was very happy about moving here,” Mr. Tsheej said.

That's very interesting. You should write about it someday.”

“I wish I could,” Mr. Tsheej said. He made a gesture of holding a pen. “I need to learn to write.”

Before the family left, Nina gave her pen to Mr. Tsheej, and said, “Please accept this pen as my gift to you. You can learn how to write, and I will look forward to reading your work.”

“Thank you and see you all again soon,” Nuo Kha said, waving goodbye.

Back from her visit to Maine, Nina continued to write about her experiences in China, and Roger helped her polish her writing. She was hoping to sell several other personal pieces to the local newspapers. She had sent a couple of pieces that she turned into travel articles to various travel magazines in the United States and in Canada, and was thrilled when they were accepted. When she wasn't writing, she poured through newspapers and journals looking for news and information on China and its political affairs. Her life was simple, but she found it fulfilling and she was content.

Just before Christmas, Nina was delighted to receive a letter from her mother.

Nov. 28, 1976

Dear daughter,

I'm writing to you even though I haven't yet received a letter from you. I hope you will get mine.

You may've heard from the news that the “Gang of Four” — Wang Hongwen, Zhang Chunqiao, Jiang Qing, and Yao Wenyuan — was thrown out of the Chinese Communist Party. Everything looks up now. Smiles appear on everybody's faces.

In short, thanks to the
TV
you bought for me, I watch the news daily, no matter how busy I am.

Does Roger like the sweater I knitted for him?

Merry Christmas!

Love,

Your mother

Even if her own letters were still going astray, at last, the first letter from her mother in China had arrived! A breath of air had finally managed to slip out of that tightly closed door. Nina was certain now that her letters would reach her mother someday soon, too.

A year slipped away. In November, 1977, Nina learned that the Chinese government had reinstated university entrance examinations. After years of absence from school, the youth who had gone through the government's arranged re-education in the countryside, would now have the opportunity to study at college or university. She remembered Huguo's words: “Maybe the sun will rise from the west someday.”
His odd dream is coming true. The sun rises in the West. Something that was once impossible, that was once just a dream, is now happening,
Nina thought.

Several months later, she received a thick envelope with some photographs from her mother, including a letter from Dongfang.

Her mother's letter read:

March 5, 1978

Dear Nina,

I'm glad to know you've published some articles in newspapers and journals. However, as a freelance writer, you must not have a regular income. Why don't you find a permanent position that can secure your financial future? Writing could be your hobby but not a real job. Don't you think so?

I have some good news. After passing the entrance exams, Rei was accepted at Peking University. He is studying in the Law Department.

Dr. Tang's children have both started school, one at college, and the other at university. Many of my colleagues are extremely excited and busy these days. Almost each family has a child that has been accepted to a college this year. One family even has all three children going to university. The age difference between the oldest and the youngest is ten years.