Bury What We Cannot Take: A novel Read online

  None of Seok Koon’s efforts to devise an alternate plan panned out. She hadn’t managed to see the UN High Commissioner or even a lesser staff member. The written appeals she’d left at the reception desk had been ignored—if the girl had even bothered to pass them on instead of chucking them in the wastebasket when Seok Koon turned her back. At her last visit to a community center clear across town, Seok Koon spoke to a wild-eyed man who’d swum six hours from Guangdong to Hong Kong, somehow avoiding the guards, with their vicious dogs, who patrolled Kowloon’s rocky coast. But that information was of no use to Seok Koon. No matter how strong a swimmer San San was, she couldn’t possibly complete such a feat.

  And then, on day ten, a letter from Cook finally arrived. No exit permits until July, he’d written in his shaky childlike scrawl—a message so pressing, he hadn’t wasted time seeking out a professional letter writer.

  For the first time since she’d set foot in the colony, Seok Koon found herself at a complete and utter loss. She hurried down the hallway to her room to avoid the inevitable questions from her mother-in-law and her son. In four days, her own exit permit would expire and the Party would confirm what its cadres must have suspected all along but never said aloud: the Ong family had left for good. In four days, regardless of the lies Seok Koon would fold into another envelope bound for Diamond Villa, her clever daughter would march one step closer to the truth. Worst of all, Comrade Koh would be reprimanded for his poor judgment, and San San’s chances of ever getting a permit would plummet to zero.

  In the next room, Bee Kim expelled a string of coughs. Seok Koon reached for her pocketbook and straw hat and left the flat—anything to delay handing over the letter, anything to delay the ensuing conversation about the necessity of patience and of staying strong for her son.

  On the street, Seok Koon lowered the brim of her hat and wondered where to go. Approaching the provision shop at the end of the block, she slowed and ducked inside. A noisy electric fan on the counter kept the store relatively cool. Her nostrils filled with the musty scent of dried sour plums in a large burlap sack on the concrete floor.

  After greeting the proprietress behind the counter, Seok Koon spotted bins of sweets lining the back wall: fruit-flavored lozenges wrapped in multicolored cellophane, milk chocolates shaped like gold coins. She pictured her daughter slicing open a box, squealing with delight as the sweets rained onto her lap. Seok Koon filled two paper sacks and took them up to the counter.

  “So many sweets,” the proprietress said. “Are you having a party?”

  Seok Koon smiled vaguely and handed over her money. The box she sent San San would be bursting with candies, so that even after the censors confiscated their share, there would be plenty left over. Then she saw her daughter digging through the box for the letter that contained news of the family’s indefinite delay. She saw her daughter sniffling, too proud to cry. Repulsion poured through Seok Koon. She disgusted herself. How could she belittle her daughter with such a cheap and obvious ploy? How dare she even think to suggest that a couple of sweets could make up for what she’d done?

  When Seok Koon first held her baby daughter in her arms, she’d kissed that silky, translucent cheek and made a silent vow: in her home, at least, her daughter and son would be treated the same, regardless of what the outside world would later bestow or withhold. As San San grew up, however, Seok Koon fretted over her plain appearance; she simply couldn’t help herself. Her daughter was said to resemble Bee Kim’s late sister—whose death had never fully been explained—while Seok Koon’s fair skin and round eyes had been wasted on her son. She began to wonder if she were in fact limiting her daughter by failing to prepare her for life away from home. At the age of ten, Ah Liam stopped attending piano lessons, and seven-year-old San San, who up until then had been permitted to do everything her big brother did, declared she would stop, too. But her daughter had real talent, and when Seok Koon forbade her from giving up the piano, San San kicked over a vase of pussy willow branches and faced Seok Koon without remorse. In a fit of anger, Seok Koon said, “You aren’t the least bit pretty, so your only hope is to cultivate other skills and pray someone marries you.” Her daughter ran off in tears, and Seok Koon clapped her hands over her mouth, appalled at the ugliness that had poured out of her—an ugliness that continued to fester in her deepest, darkest place, regardless of her good intentions.

  Out on the sidewalk she paused, sick to her stomach. Should she throw out the sweets or give them to the vagrant she sometimes saw napping in doorways?

  “Mrs. Ong, how are you?” the owner of the corner newsstand called out.

  She turned reluctantly. “Fine, thank you, Mr. Cheong. And how are you?”

  “Not bad, not bad.”

  A tabloid newspaper lay open before the old man, and the headline at the top of the page caught Seok Koon’s eye: “Businessman Escapes with Aid of Underground Christians.” She took a step closer. “Do you have another one of those?”

  He gestured to the rack beside him that held half a dozen copies.

  Seok Koon stuck a copy under her arm and thrust a coin at him. After a moment’s thought, she set the paper sacks on the counter. “For your grandkids,” she said and hurried down the street, ignoring the old man’s polite protests.

  Outside her building, she tore through the newspaper in search of the headline. According to the article, underground Christians stationed in various locations across the mainland had worked closely with churches in Hong Kong to get this Shanghainese businessman across the border. The harrowing journey had taken nearly a month. When the businessman finally arrived at his family’s doorstep in Hong Kong, he was so battered and weak they mistook him for a beggar.

  Just one day earlier, before Cook’s letter, Seok Koon would have dismissed the article. Now, however, her desperation took over. She searched the text for a name or a detail to latch on to, but the businessman was determined to protect the identities of all who’d aided him on the mainland.

  Near the article’s end, Seok Koon saw a quote from a Father Leung of St. John’s Cathedral in Hong Kong’s Central District. Although he wouldn’t comment on his church’s involvement in such rescue missions, he said, “It is our duty as followers of Christ to help the persecuted in any way we can.”

  Seok Koon spun around and flagged a taxi careening down the street.

  Minutes later, she stood on the peaceful, shady grounds of the elegantly unadorned English Gothic church. She could hardly believe that the madness of downtown was just steps away.

  Inside the church, the high-ceilinged nave was empty, unsurprising for a Monday. Up above, stained-glass windows glowed like precious jewels, far more ornate than the ones adorning the chapel of Seok Koon’s missionary high school. She passed rows of bare pews, wondering how she would find this Father Leung.

  Nearing the altar, she stopped short. Tucked into a second-row pew was a small woman on her knees, her bowed head shielded by an enormous wide-brimmed hat.

  Seok Koon quietly backed away, but the woman turned and opened one eye. “Can I help you?”

  In stilted Cantonese, Seok Koon explained why she had come.

  “Priests never work on Mondays,” the woman said. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  Seok Koon’s spirits plunged to the ground. She hadn’t prayed since high school, and even then, the verses they’d intoned in unison at morning chapel had seemed a game, not unlike the singsong chants heard across playgrounds. Still she lifted her face and sent a plea into the heavens: please, please, please. Her many, many hopes and wants precluded her from elaborating.

  The woman directed Seok Koon to the church office, where the secretary would be able to assist her. Seok Koon introduced herself to a young woman with cat-eye spectacles who flipped through a large, leather-bound book before declaring she’d have to come back at the end of the week.

  First the UN High Commissioner’s office, now this. “Please, I can’t wait that long.”

  “I’m so
rry, Madame,” the young woman said. Unlike the UN receptionist, she looked genuinely apologetic. “Father Leung is extremely busy.”

  The door that Seok Koon had entered moments before swung open, and a tall, trim man walked in.

  The young woman adjusted her spectacles. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”

  The only priests Seok Koon had encountered were ancient anachronisms in their funny headpieces and robes. This man, dressed in a blazer and pressed slacks, looked more like an accountant, or a teacher.

  He said, “One of these days, I promise, I’ll stay away for at least twenty-four hours.”

  Somehow Seok Koon’s prayer had worked. “Father, sorry to push in here,” she began, ruing her poor Cantonese. “I really need help. Truly. I saw you in the newspaper.”

  The smile slid off the priest’s face.

  “I told her the earliest appointment was at the end of the week,” the young woman said.

  “That’s all right,” said the priest. “Why don’t we chat in my office, Madame—?” He gave Seok Koon a questioning glance.

  “My husband’s name is Ong.”

  “Come this way, Madame Ong.” He ushered her into a tidy room, lined from floor to ceiling with books. When he removed his hat, she saw his close-cropped hair was silver though his face was boyishly smooth.

  “My daughter is on the mainland,” Seok Koon said. “I must rescue her.”

  To her relief, the priest switched to Mandarin. “Where on the mainland?”

  “Drum Wave Islet, off the coast of Xiamen, and I’m running out of time.” Seok Koon’s story poured out of her, and as she recounted the details of San San’s plight, the priest tented his fingertips and listened, never interrupting, never hurrying her along.

  Still, Seok Koon suspected him of judging her. He was human, after all. “The director swore it’d only take a few days. I never would have left her otherwise.”

  Father Leung brought his tented fingertips to his lips. “And you say she’s only nine.” He did not look hopeful.

  “But so intelligent and mature for her age.”

  “Doubtless,” he said, “but this is a highly dangerous process, and we’ve never rescued a lone child.”

  “But you’ve rescued others?”

  The priest nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “You have to help me,” Seok Koon said. “I have no one else to turn to.”

  The priest raised his palms and gestured for her to stay calm. “I’m not ruling it out.”

  Seok Koon fought the urge to throw herself at his feet in gratitude. “Tell me what we’ll need to do.”

  Father Leung explained the plan: Seok Koon would put up a sum of money, which his contacts on the mainland would use to pay a trucker who routinely crossed the border with a truck bed filled with vegetables, medicinal roots, textiles, teas—bulky commodities that could hide a human form.

  “I want to be very clear,” the priest said. “There are no guarantees. If your daughter is discovered . . .” He didn’t go on.

  Seok Koon stared at him, simultaneously wanting him to drop the thought and to keep talking.

  “If your daughter is discovered, the punishment will be severe.”

  “I understand,” Seok Koon said, though she knew that if she let herself explore the possible dangers awaiting San San, she’d go insane.

  His gaze met hers. “I’ve made the trip at least ten times, and I can tell you that if it were my daughter, I’m not sure I’d go through with this.”

  Seok Koon’s fury roared up from within. How easy for him to say when his children were safe at home. “I appreciate your candor,” she snapped.

  He gave her a sad smile, and she regretted her outburst. She took a deep breath to steady herself and asked conversationally, “And how many children do you have?”

  “None,” he said simply. “My wife—my late wife—couldn’t conceive.”

  Seok Koon longed to take back the question, but the priest didn’t seem to hold it against her. He reached for a notepad and wrote something down. He tore off the sheet of paper, folded it in half, and gave it to Seok Koon. “All of it goes to the smugglers. The church pockets nothing. Talk it over with your husband.”

  Forgetting her manners, Seok Koon unfolded the sheet, and at the sight of the long row of numbers, her mouth went dry. She did the math, converting Hong Kong dollars to yuan, but the sum remained astronomical. She refolded the sheet, dragging her thumb across the crease, and placed it in her pocketbook. “I’ll have an answer for you by tomorrow.”

  “Just ask my secretary to let me know you’re here.” The skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

  She wondered how Father Leung’s late wife had felt about him risking his life on these cross-border missions. Had they rescued people together? Was it something he undertook after her death to fill the void in his heart?

  “I can’t thank you enough, Father,” she said.

  “And you’ll be at service on Sunday?”

  Seok Koon found herself nodding, unable to say no to the man who was her only hope.

  10

  His chauffeur approached the circular driveway of the apartment tower, and Ah Zhai peered out the passenger window. The meticulously restored Beaux-Arts structure, with its grand pediment and column-flanked door, recalled the entrance to an important university or government building.

  When his family first arrived, a week and a half ago, they’d been understandably wary. The islet’s wealthy did not live in high-rises. Compared to Diamond Villa’s ornate—in his mind, overdone—architecture, this building must have appeared too plain, too hard, too cold.

  His mother had craned to take in the full height of the building and asked, “How many floors belong to us?”

  “Just one, Ma,” Ah Zhai had replied, tamping down his irritation. “It’ll be smaller than the villa, but you should still have plenty of room.” In the corner of his eye, he saw his wife’s face blanch, and he wished he’d simply answered the question.

  When they entered the sweeping, wood-paneled lobby, however, and paused before the towering arrangement of stargazer lilies, lit like a piece of sculpture by the glimmering chandelier, he saw they were suitably impressed. They would never know how much they owed Lulu. She was the one who’d used her cousin’s connections to secure a flat in this exclusive neighborhood. She’d chosen the furniture and hired the household staff.

  And how did he express his gratitude? By begging out of social engagements and returning home late. An hour earlier, when he’d called to say he couldn’t meet her at the Parisian Grill after all, she’d had every right to be upset.

  “Go ahead and neglect me, I can take it,” Lulu cried into the phone. “But what about when Marigold arrives? Are you going to pass her over for your real children?” Lulu was convinced she was expecting a girl. She’d already tested and discarded other fanciful English names like Gwendolyn and Isabella.

  What could he say to that? He intended to fulfill his obligations to all of his children, but that wasn’t the answer Lulu wanted. “You and the baby are my everything,” he said. “Once my family has settled in, I promise, everything will go back to normal.” Seok Koon hadn’t given a reason for insisting he dine at the flat that evening, but she so rarely demanded anything of him, he couldn’t refuse.

  “Go. Mari and I will be just fine on our own.”

  He could see her waving her cigarette, its long tail of ash dangling perilously over her bulging belly.

  “Tomorrow,” he pleaded, “we’ll go wherever you want.”

  But Lulu had hung up.

  Inside the elevator, alone for the first time all day, Ah Zhai slumped against the plush padded velvet wall and closed his eyes. His body ached in places he hadn’t known possible: the roots of his hair, the sockets of his eyes, the hinges of his jaw. Lulu wasn’t the only person upset with him. There was Old Wu, senior vice president at the factory and his father’s former right-hand man, who’d calmly threatened resignation if Ah Zhai
continued to resist layoffs and other cost-cutting measures. There was Mr. Tam, the stingy, unreasonable landlord from whom Ah Zhai had rented this very flat. There were the ruthless Mong Kok loan sharks, who ruled the dark and deadly streets Ah Zhai would never have dreamed of traversing a few months earlier, but which he now navigated with ease. And finally there was his family, whose collective accusatory gaze bored through his back each time he left the flat for the townhouse. All of these people demanded more, more—except for his daughter, who perhaps didn’t know it was her right. But he was already wrung dry. He had nothing left to give.

  Instead of inserting his key in the lock, he raised his fist and knocked. The maid pulled back the door, and the fragrance of sizzling garlic and ginger enveloped him. He traded his stiff leather shoes for soft slippers. Before he could relax, just for a moment, and appreciate these simple comforts, his wife materialized before him.

  “Not yet,” Ah Zhai said automatically. “He hasn’t written back.” He’d recently written to a business associate, rumored to be the half brother of a high-ranking cadre in Shanghai who might hold sway over the islet’s safety bureau.

  His wife didn’t sigh or drop her gaze. “Thank you for making time for us this evening,” she said.

  Here she was again, pointing out his shortcomings. But when she held out his tumbler of scotch, her smile was warm. Their fingertips brushed, and he yanked back his hand, splashing a few drops on the floor. “Clumsy me.”

  Seok Koon waved off his slipup and called for the maid to bring a rag.