Bury What We Cannot Take: A novel Page 10

  Ah Liam’s coins tumbled to the ground. “Let go,” he said in Mandarin, fighting to break free. “I dropped my money.”

  The boy let Ah Liam pick up his coins, and then he half walked, half dragged him into a stairwell.

  “You’re hurting me,” Ah Liam cried, his voice echoing off the walls.

  “Shut up,” said the tall boy, finally releasing him. “You’ll get us all in trouble.”

  In the dark, cool space beneath the stairs, a girl and a second boy who was shorter and fatter than the first sat cross-legged on the concrete floor.

  The tall boy waved Comrade Ang’s book in Ah Liam’s face. “Are you crazy? Going around with this in public?”

  He couldn’t believe his grandmother had been right after all. “Give it back,” Ah Liam said, but the boy easily held the book out of his reach.

  The girl rolled her eyes. “Give it back to him, Tek. His shrieks are driving me nuts.”

  The boy tossed the book at Ah Liam, hitting him squarely in the chest.

  “Ai.” Ah Liam stooped to pick up the book and carefully dusted it off.

  The girl switched to Mandarin. “So, what’s your name? When did you arrive in Hong Kong?” She stood and stretched her legs. She was very tall—almost as tall as the boy—and so thin that her arms swam in the ample sleeves of her blouse. Unlike the other girls with their elaborate plaits and waves, this girl’s hair was a shiny black cap that curled beneath each of her small ears. Ah Liam had never seen anyone so odd looking yet so attractive.

  He told them his name and where he was from.

  “I’m Li An,” said the girl. She pointed to the tall boy. “The bully over there is Ah Tek.”

  Ah Tek contorted his pockmarked face into a grotesque grin. He tilted his head toward the other boy, still seated on the ground. “That’s Fatty.”

  Fatty pushed his spectacles up his bulbous nose and nodded. Ah Liam had to admit the nickname was appropriate.

  “Where did you get that book anyway?” Li An asked.

  “The political discussion leader at my school back home lent me his personal copy.”

  When the girl failed to look impressed, Ah Liam added, “I was in the process of applying to join the Youth League right before my ma made me leave.”

  “Is that so?” Ah Tek said, curling his upper lip.

  Ah Liam sensed he was being made fun of. “Yes, the Youth League. The first major step toward Party membership. In fact, I’m saving up for my ticket home.”

  Ah Tek continued to smirk. “All by yourself?”

  Ah Liam squared his shoulders and faced that horrid boy straight on. “How long have you been away? Or were you born here? Don’t you know the Party welcomes all students home with open arms?”

  Ah Tek raised his eyebrows at Li An, who in turn exchanged looks with Fatty.

  “I’ve saved up almost enough money for my ticket,” Ah Liam lied. “I don’t plan to be at this school for long.”

  Li An stepped forward and placed a hand on Ah Liam’s shoulder. Her fingertips seemed to sink though the thin fabric of his shirt, beyond the surface of his skin and deep into his flesh, leaving what he was sure would be an indelible mark, like a cattle brand.

  “So,” she said, “you’re one of us.”

  13

  The day her family was due home, San San dragged a stool to the window overlooking the front gate and knelt there until her kneecaps were red and sore. Mui Ah tried to lure her away with a mug of tea, a red bean bun, a bowl of spare-rib soup, but San San would not budge.

  She knelt until it was too dark to make out the faces of the figures on the street below. She knelt until an hour after the last ferry was scheduled to dock. She knelt until her worries and fears and excuses jumbled together in her head in a cacophonous roar. When she heard Mui Ah shut the door to her room beyond the kitchen, she climbed down and hobbled, stiff legged to her own room.

  She didn’t know why she wasn’t angrier, why a part of her already felt resigned. She was changing out of her school uniform when the heavy brass knocker struck the front door. She tore her blouse over her head and shimmied into her nightgown. She was halfway out of her room when Auntie Rose’s voice drifted down the hallway. “How is she?”

  Mui Ah clicked her tongue against her upper teeth. “She waited by the window for hours. She refused to eat all day.”

  San San silently shut the door to her room, switched off the light, and dove into bed.

  Mui Ah knocked softly. “San San? Auntie Rose is here.”

  She lay very still. The door cracked open. She’d seen neither her piano teacher nor the doctor since the day she’d fainted by the side of the road. She’d been too angry to visit them; she’d even pretended to be sick to skip her piano lesson.

  “Don’t wake her. I’ll come back tomorrow,” Auntie Rose whispered. When the door shut, she added, “The poor thing.”

  Hot tears sprang to San San’s eyes and she was filled with shame. Everyone, even the servants, had anticipated her family’s delay. Only she had persisted in clinging to her mother’s flimsy promises. She buried her face in the softness of her pillow to muffle her sobs.

  In the morning, Cook announced he was moving into her grandmother’s bedroom. “The bed will be better for my back,” was all he offered by way of explanation.

  San San was incensed. “You can’t do that. My grandma won’t allow it.”

  Cook looked at Mui Ah. “I really don’t think she’ll care,” he said.

  San San dashed off a letter to her mother reporting Cook’s outrageous behavior, but when she realized she’d have to give it to Cook to mail, she hid the sheet of paper in a textbook.

  Each day she accumulated new grievances, which she added to the letter. The way Cook and Mui Ah spent hours playing cards in the drawing room with the downstairs tenants. How they made a racket well into the night. How they lounged with their feet on the mother-of-pearl-inlaid rosewood chairs. How Cook left San San’s supper in a pot on the stove and told her to serve herself and rinse off her dish in the washbasin. As soon as San San could steal a stamp, she’d take the letter to the post office herself.

  At school, San San was allowed to attend regular classes, but Little Red had been moved to another desk, and she now sat alone.

  One afternoon, outside the school gates, San San watched as Little Red trooped off with her new seatmate, a timid girl they called Steamed Bun because of her fair skin and round cheeks. She heard Little Red suggest she and Steamed Bun walk down to the beach. “I’ll show you where to find the best seashells.”

  When Little Red took Steamed Bun’s hand, San San bent over and scratched the mosquito bite on her ankle so she wouldn’t have to watch them.

  “San San,” a familiar voice said.

  At the sight of the doctor, San San’s face reddened. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to pick you up from school,” he said lightly.

  She wondered what Auntie Rose had told him, if he’d come to gloat and demand an apology. “Since my brother’s been gone I walk home by myself.”

  Dr. Lee squinted up at the hot afternoon sun. “But isn’t it a pleasant day? Let’s go for a stroll.”

  San San shifted her satchel to her other shoulder. “Don’t you have to work?”

  “Just a short stroll.”

  She finally agreed, simply to get away from her gawking classmates. She and Dr. Lee walked down Forever Spring Road, and she waited for him to point out that he’d been right about her mother.

  In a low voice, the doctor said, “I have something important to discuss with you.”

  San San looked up in surprise. Did he have news from Hong Kong?

  A pretty girl whom San San recognized as one of Ah Liam’s classmates and another of Auntie Rose’s piano students skipped past. “Hello, Dr. Lee,” the girl called out.

  The doctor waved. “How are you, Ping Ping?” He waited for the girl to move out of hearing range and said, “Let’s find a quiet place to talk.”r />
  The road swerved sharply to the west, and when the imposing granite statue of Koxinga came into view, they turned in to the entrance for Bright Moon Garden.

  It was the hottest time of day. The grounds were empty except for a lone grandfather, practicing tai chi beneath the shade of a maple tree. The heady scent of honeysuckle tickled San San’s nostrils, and her sneeze punctured the silence.

  She followed Dr. Lee down the path to a stone bench, partially shielded by the thick, gnarled trunk of an Indian rubber tree. He craned to make sure no one had followed them.

  She couldn’t hold back any longer. “Did my ma write you? What did she say?”

  He shook his head, and her heart dropped.

  But then the doctor leaned in close. “Listen very carefully. Tonight, at two a.m. sharp, get out of bed and come straight to my house. Bring nothing. Make sure no one sees you.”

  “What?” she asked.

  He repeated his instructions.

  “But why?”

  He held up his index finger. “I’ll leave the side entrance open. Do not go to the front door, and do not ring the bell. Is that clear? Under no circumstances are you to ring the bell.”

  The doctor’s intensity frightened her. She’d never seen him like this.

  “Is that clear?” he asked again.

  She nodded.

  “Show me your watch.”

  San San stuck out the wrist that bore the watch her father had sent for her last birthday.

  Dr. Lee checked her watch against his. “Don’t fall asleep. Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t,” she said. “But why?”

  He stretched to check the other side of the tree before he spoke again—this time so quietly that San San thought she might have imagined the words: “We’re taking you to your mother.”

  Her body went hot and cold all at once. She was dizzy with euphoria.

  The doctor made her repeat his instructions back to him twice before he was satisfied, but San San needed more answers. “Did my ma send for me? Are you coming along? And Auntie Rose, too?”

  Dr. Lee’s lips smiled but his eyes were somber. “You’re the one who’s coming with us.”

  San San didn’t understand why Dr. Lee and Auntie Rose would need to go to Hong Kong, but there were other, more pressing questions on her mind. “How is my father? How will I cross the border without an exit permit?”

  Dr. Lee took her face in his hands and said, “Enough. Just make sure you heed my instructions.” He rose and started down the garden path, and she had no choice but to follow.

  When they passed the old man practicing tai chi, Dr. Lee called out, “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” And the man flashed a toothless grin.

  At the park entrance, Dr. Lee and San San stood in the long shadow of the statue of Koxinga.

  “I have to go back to the hospital,” said Dr. Lee. “Can you get home on your own?”

  “Of course,” San San said, trying to mirror his composure.

  He patted her head and strode off. She leaned against the stone base of the statue and gazed up at the legendary local hero, admiring the determined jut of his chin, his fierce, unwavering gaze.

  Grandma had told her the story of the brave warrior who’d lived on Drum Wave Islet hundreds of years earlier, back when the greedy Dutch had seized control of the neighboring island of Taiwan. With the goal of liberating his neighbors, Koxinga recruited and trained twenty-five thousand men. One fog-shrouded morning, near the end of the north monsoon, he and his men crossed the Taiwan Strait. The Dutch awoke to a swarm of masts so thick they couldn’t make out the ocean below, but they remained calm. After all, they’d helped to perpetuate the rumor that Chinese soldiers were cowards who dropped their bows and arrows and fled at the first whiff of gunpowder. They went so far as to boast that twenty-five Chinese could not match the strength of a single Dutch soldier.

  Bolstered by these beliefs, the Dutch captain marched his few hundred men straight at the fully armored Chinese soldiers. The Chinese unleashed a storm of arrows so great, they turned day into night. In response, the Dutch confidently fired three volleys in a row. To their great surprise, however, the Chinese showed no signs of panic and continued their attack. The Dutch dropped their weapons and retreated, but the Chinese did not rest until they’d slain 118 Dutchmen, as well as their cocksure captain.

  Following his victory, Koxinga gave the Dutch a choice: surrender the region, or force him and his men to storm their fort. The Dutch saw no point in delaying the inevitable, and after thirty-eight years of forced rule, they relinquished Taiwan.

  When San San and her brother were younger, they’d spent hours in the villa courtyard reenacting the epic battle with their imaginary armies. The game typically began with the two of them arguing over who would get to play Koxinga, and San San always lost.

  Now, looking back, San San knew her brother had been right. She was too small, too weak, just a girl. In no way did she embody the courage and ferocity of Koxinga. She didn’t even deserve to rest in this patch of shade beneath the hero’s monument. Taking two steps forward, she surrendered to the sun’s blaze. She hated her family for leaving her behind, for delaying their return without so much as an apology, but she hated herself more—her inability to stay mad at them, her overwhelming, helpless desire to rush to her mother’s side.

  14

  Ah Zhai flicked the abacus beads up and down, up and down, as though by just doing the math one more time, the numbers would add up and he could pay his workers. Over the past month, he’d let go of a third of his seamstresses. He’d replaced some of the most loyal and skilled among them with recent refugees from the mainland who’d work for half the salary. Still, Old Wu insisted he do more, never mind that technically he reported to Ah Zhai. Because Old Wu had been sent by Ah Zhai’s father to guide him through setting up the Hong Kong operation, he’d appointed himself the keeper of the late boss’s wisdom. Every sentence that left his lips began with, “If Boss Ong were still with us, may he rest in peace . . .” But even the venerated Boss Ong couldn’t have anticipated what would become of the once steady uniform trade as mainland garment factories relocated to Hong Kong in droves.

  The telephone at Ah Zhai’s elbow sprang to life. He lifted the receiver and heard his secretary’s voice. “It’s Mr. Tam again, sir.”

  He knocked the receiver against his skull, and for a brief moment his attention coalesced around that single spot of pain. He relaxed.

  “Sir? Are you there?” Wendy’s voice sounded not only through the telephone but also through the door, and the doubling effect was disorienting, like seeing one’s reflection multiplied in a house of mirrors.

  “Sir?”

  He exhaled long and slow to smooth all traces of strain from his voice. “Tell him I’m in a meeting and will call him back as soon as I can.”

  “You told him that last time, sir.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I appreciate the reminder.”

  He was about to hang up when his secretary said, “It’s just that Mr. Tam said to tell you that he’ll be forced to call your home and talk to Miss Lulu if you can’t take his call right now.”

  Slumped over his desk, Ah Zhai imagined gathering all the strength in his weary, aching, aging body and hurling the telephone straight through the wall. “Put him through,” he said.

  The line clicked over.

  “Mr. Tam,” Ah Zhai cried, his jovialness exaggerated to the point of absurdity. “How may I be of service?”

  The landlord made a guttural sound of disgust. “Come now, Mr. Ong. Let’s not waste each other’s time.”

  Ah Zhai adopted a cool, reasonable tone. “You and I are both businessmen. We understand the ebbs and flows of the market. The uniform business has been tough lately.” He was talking quickly, afraid of being interrupted—and of what the landlord might say next. “And getting my family over from the mainland wasn’t cheap. But once my finances are back in order, I’d be happy to pay you the next six months’ r
ent up front to make up for the delay.”

  “You have until the end of the month,” said the landlord. “I hate to have to say this, but if I don’t get the money, your family will have to make other living arrangements.”

  Ah Zhai stared down at the receiver in disbelief. He was a respected businessman from a distinguished family, active and well liked in the community. How dare this man treat him like some pathetic, defenseless debtor.

  “Mr. Ong? Have I made myself clear?”

  “You’ll get your money.” Ah Zhai slammed down the receiver with enough force to shake his desk. He caught the crystal ashtray before it toppled off the edge.

  He lit a cigarette and replayed the conversation in his head. His free hand flexed as he imagined ringing the landlord’s scrawny, sinewy neck, and what riled him most was something Tam hadn’t even said directly to him: the threat to call his mistress.

  Orphaned at age two, Lulu had been raised by a wealthy, doting uncle as one of his own. When the uncle discovered Lulu and Ah Zhai’s budding affair, he threatened to disown her, and who could blame him? Ah Zhai was a married man, and Lulu had been all but promised to the middle son of the Low family, powerful property developers who’d be useful allies. But even back then, Lulu was stubborn and fiercely independent. She told her uncle that unlike her meek and docile cousins, she couldn’t be bought with his dirty money. She packed up her belongings and moved in with Ah Zhai, who was simultaneously awestruck and dismayed by his young mistress’s behavior. He knew her courage was enabled by the ignorance of youth. Just seventeen, she didn’t comprehend what she’d given up: the cousins she’d considered her brothers and sisters, the friends who’d no longer think her their equal, the financial security she’d never gone without. But Ah Zhai was touched all the same. Their first night together, he swaddled his hands in her wiry reddish-brown tresses—inherited from her French great-grandmother—and vowed he’d always take care of her, no matter what. She’d mocked his solemnity, saying, “Well, it really is the least you can do.”

  With time, people got used to seeing Ah Zhai and Lulu together, and the scandal faded. Lulu’s old friends forgot what they’d been so incensed about and started inviting her to their luncheons and tea parties again. After her uncle passed away, Cousin Cynthia, whom Lulu had been closest to, got back in touch. Lulu had inherited nothing, but what did it matter when Ah Zhai had more than enough for both of them?