“I’m going home, San-bao.”
“Come on, Willow.”
“No, San-bao.”
“You owe me.” He dropped his smile and his voice turned cold.
I was frightened. I got up and ran, but he caught me.
“You really believe that I’d let a cooked duck fly away?” He pushed me down.
I struggled to free myself.
He held my neck and twisted my head to the side. “I paid for your soy nuts.”
“I’ll give you the money back!”
“You have no money.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“I want it right now!”
“I don’t have it.”
“Yes, you do. You have something I like. All you have to do is to let me touch it . . .” He reached inside my clothes.
“San-bao, please!”
“Willow, give me no trouble.”
“Let me go!”
“Don’t make me hurt you.”
“No!”
“You bitch!”
“No!”
He pressed my face down to stop me from screaming.
I fought and kicked, but he was too strong.
My clothes were ripped.
I begged him to stop.
Refusing, he forced himself onto me.
Losing strength, I broke down. There was no way I could escape. I regretted my foolishness.
It was when San-bao pushed my face to the side that I saw a shadow. There was a figure hiding behind a stone tablet.
A familiar black knitted cap revealed who it was.
“Help!” I screamed.
Before San-bao could react, Pearl ran up. She struck San-bao with a big rock.
Instantly, San-bao fell over and was still.
“Oh, my God.” Pearl stepped back. “Did I kill him?”
I gasped getting up.
Pearl bent down and put a finger under San-bao’s nose.
“He’s not dead!” Pearl said. “Should I hit him more?”
“No, no more!” San-bao pleaded, trying to raise himself.
“You deserve to die!” I yelled.
Pearl picked up the rock again.
“No!” San-bao rose and ran.
Pearl chased him until he disappeared.
Gratitude filled my chest.
Pearl came back and brushed the dirt off my clothes.
“Thank you for the rescue, my friend,” I uttered.
“Who is your friend?” She turned away. “Liar!”
“Please forgive me, Pearl. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
“Do you expect me to trust you?” She looked at me, disgusted. “You took my father’s wallet and spent his money; you stole Wang Ah-ma’s pancakes and lied to my mother . . . You little donkey ass!” You little donkey She walked down the hill, swinging her basket.
I tried to hold back my tears.
She sang a Chinese song that I knew well. The hills echoed. The colorful wild flowers in her basket bounced under the bright sunshine.
Jasmine flower, sweet jasmine flower
Your beauty and fragrance is the best among the spring
I’d like to pick you and wear you in my hair
But I fear that you would be upset and wouldn’t come back the next year
Noises filled the Sunday church. Men exchanged opinions on the weather and methods for pest control. Women knitted, mended, embroidered, and chatted. Someone shouted across the room. Children threw pine nuts at each other. Mothers nursed their infants and yelled at their elder children. Absalom was unable to quiet the crowd until Papa rang a merchant’s bell.
“Folks, the Western monk needs our help,” Papa said with raised voice. “In my opinion, Absalom offers not an alternative but a better deal. Look, we have fed our gods and they are fat and happy. But what have they done for us? Nothing. Now, folks, I’d like you to take a hard look at Absalom’s God, Jesus Christ. Just look at his appearance. Anyone who is not blind can tell that he works harder than the Chinese gods. So listen, folks, listen to Absalom.”
Absalom picked up the opportunity. “Today we shall learn about the Baptism of Christ.” He pulled out his color drawing and pointed. “The two men are Lord Christ and John.”
I saw two figures standing in a river performing a ceremony. John and Christ had almost oriental features, with smaller noses and slightly slanted eyes. Absalom had finally taken Papa’s advice. He had smoothed the deep-set Western eyes and flattened their pointed noses. Christ now had longer earlobes, resembling Buddha’s.
Papa told me that Absalom at first had insisted on presenting a fully bearded Christ. It wasn’t until Papa proved to him that no Chinese would worship a god that looked like a monkey that he agreed to trim the beard.
“Buddha’s face changed as he traveled from India to China.” Papa pointed out to Absalom the difference between the early India Buddha and the later Chinese Buddha. Buddha’s eyes grew smaller as he arrived in China, his skin lighter and smoother. The Chinese sculptors made sure that Buddha appeared well fed. With his eyes half closed, Buddha looks like he is about to nap after a satisfying meal.
When Absalom baptized Papa, it was a big day for the town. Everyone wanted to see Papa being dipped in the river like a pot sticker in soy sauce. It was the first time Pearl and I sat together. We both had been trying to help our fathers draw a crowd.
Absalom and Papa stood face-to-face in the river with water up to their waists. Absalom was in his dark gray robe, while Papa wore his washed white cotton gown. Papa was red-faced and looked nervous, while Absalom was serious and solemn.
Speaking his heavily accented Chinese, Absalom explained, “Descending into the waters implies a confession of guilt and a plea for forgiveness.”
Papa repeated loudly after Absalom.
“Make a new beginning!” Absalom shouted. “Come to the light on the Cross!”
Papa tried to stand still but wasn’t able to. “When should I take a breath?” he asked.
Absalom ignored him. “‘Take me and throw me into the sea,’ says Jesus,” he sang.
“Tell me when,” Papa spoke again.
“Wait.” Absalom held him.
“I am afraid of drowning,” Papa said. “I really am.”
“Trust in God.”
Gently, Absalom pushed Papa back until his head went under the water.
The crowd held its breath.
“Lord Jesus bears all righteousness!” Absalom hailed.
The crowd cheered.
Papa looked frozen. He emerged from the water and immediately sank back again.
“Papa, what are you doing?” I shouted.
“He is accepting Christ’s death,” Pearl said quietly.
“For what?”
“For his sins and the sins of humanity.”
Papa reemerged from the river, spilling water like a fountain. He didn’t choke. I was relieved. I saw NaiNai among the crowd wiping her tears. The night before she had told us that she liked the idea that her son was getting a cleaning.
“God calls out, ‘This is my beloved son!’” Absalom shouted. “‘This is the anticipation of his death on the Cross and his Resurrection!’”
Led by Absalom, Papa walked out of the river.
“I feel God and his Will!” Papa said to the crowd. “Jesus made me shake off a failed life. I am to begin a new one!”
I was sure Papa did it for Absalom to thank him.
As if touched by Papa’s transformation, Absalom stuck out both of his arms toward the sky, calling out, “Praise the Lord!”
Speaking together as if singing a duet, Papa and Absalom stood side by side in the church on Sundays. Folks were curious when they heard about Papa’s new luck on getting blessed by the foreign god. They came to see if they could acquire the same protection.
Papa delivered an outstanding performance for Absalom.
“We live in an underworld filled with demons,” Papa began with the same enthusiasm he showed when reciti
ng his Chinese poems. “Doomed by fate, we are captured by evil, spellbound by mean spirits. We, the incense burners, the coolies, the losers, gamblers, drunkards, thieves, and deaf-n-blinds. Be afraid no more, because Jesus is here to help. All you have to do is to make a new start by signing up with Absalom.”
Papa asked the town’s seventeen-year-old widow, Lilac, who was an egg seller, “Am I right to guess that Buddha hasn’t answered your prayers?”
“No, he certainly has not,” Lilac replied.
“Are you losing faith in him?”
“I am afraid to say yes, but yes.”
“You are disappointed.”
“I don’t mean to offend Buddha. But yes.”
“Lilac, you have been visiting the temple since birth. The incense you have burned could make a hill. Did your life change for the good? You were bought and sold twice. You were married to a sick man who was dying. You were forced to sleep with the crop in order to balance his yin and yang elements. You barely escaped from your in-laws. You came to Chin-kiang friendless and family-less and still are. Have you ever questioned the god you worship?”
Lilac shook her head and began to weep.
“Well, consider your disappointment an investment!” Papa said.
“An investment?” Lilac’s big eyes widened.
Absalom frowned.
Papa’s tongue had never been so slippery as his words poured. “This investment warns you not to make any more bad choices, so that you won’t end up captive to evil spirits forever!”
“But I have been burning incense!” Lilac protested. “I don’t deserve bad luck forever!”
“Have you ever asked yourself the reason that bad luck still follows you?” Papa asked.
Lilac shook her head.
“Why you and no one else?”
“Why?”
To drive home his point, Papa punched his right fist into his left palm. “It’s the wrong god you have been worshipping!”
Lilac was stunned.
“The Christian God says, Lilac, you deserve a chance for a better life. Yes, you, Lilac!” Like an opera singer, Papa commanded the stage. “God tells me that Lilac deserves the same chance as his beloved son, the Lord Jesus Christ! Now make your wish and claim it!”
“I’d certainly make that wish,” Lilac said in a small voice. “But first and most of all I wish that my eggs be given a chance to become chickens.”
I admired Lilac because she never complained about her misfortune. She was always cheerful and kind. Her egg service was fully booked before winter. This year she thought that I was old enough to help her separate the good eggs from the bad. She hired me. What surprised me was that Pearl was there too. I learned that Pearl had been visiting Lilac since she had been a little girl. Lilac’s egg house was her playground. Lilac adored Pearl because she was such a dependable helper. Carie told Lilac that her daughter was permitted there for the learning experience. Pearl had so much fun that she would forget to go home. Wang Ah-ma had to come and drag her back at the end of the day.
At Lilac’s request, Pearl showed me the way. I learned that it would take about a month and a half for the eggs to hatch. Pearl taught me to separate eggs from the main basket. We removed the eggs that were too small or whose shells were too thin, or had a broken yolk or had been in the storage too long.
Pearl told me that what she loved to do most was shine the eggs. This was done after Lilac sealed the egg house, leaving only a small hole in the door. Pearl and I took turns holding the eggs in front of the hole where the sunlight shone through. This was called “the first look.” The purpose was to see if the egg yolk carried a pearl. If there was a pearl, the hen had been visited by a rooster, which meant that the egg would turn into a chick.
After the examination, we placed the qualified eggs in warm baskets padded with cotton. Lilac would take the baskets and store them underneath her big brick bed behind her stove. We had to wait for four days to have “the second look.”
The purpose of the second look was to see if the pearl had swelled. Lilac taught us to hold the egg in our palm. Back and forth we turned the egg toward the sun. We looked for a shadow, the pearl. It was not an easy task and it took an experienced eye. Afterward we removed the eggs that hadn’t swelled. Again we put the qualified eggs in the cotton-padded baskets and put them under Lilac’s bed.
We would repeat the procedure every four days. It was what Lilac called “the third look” and “the fourth look.” When the shadow became clear to our eyes, we moved all the egg baskets from underneath Lilac’s big bed and transferred them to ceramic pots. Inside the pots was a mixture of earth and straw. It looked like a hot cave. A tiny fire was built underneath the pots to keep the temperature warm. According to Lilac, this was the most crucial step. If it was too hot, the eggs would be cooked. If it wasn’t warm enough, the pearl wouldn’t turn into a chick.
The success or failure of Lilac’s year would be determined in a few days. Lilac invited all her gods onto her walls. She lit incense and performed ceremonies begging to be blessed. This year she put up a picture of Jesus Christ.
I was tempted to take a peek into the pots. But Pearl refused to go along with me. She followed Lilac’s instruction faithfully. Like a mother hen, Lilac wouldn’t leave her eggs. Day and night, she guarded the pots, adding and withdrawing straw to and from the fire. She no longer spoke but whispered—she was afraid to disturb the eggs. I watched Pearl draw pictures of Lilac, who was sleeping with her mouth wide open. Lilac had been talking about making good money hatching her eggs before she fell asleep. In the last two-week period Lilac had grown thin. She had no time to eat or sleep. She feared that the temperature would waver and destroy her harvest. Her eyes became red and her cheeks sunken. Pearl and I avoided talking to Lilac because she was irritable and nervous.
When Lilac put out the fire, we knew that the winter was over. In just a few days the air warmed. Spring came with dampness, and we had to battle excessive moisture.
The three of us took the eggs out of the giant ceramic pots to air them. We put the eggs on Lilac’s brick bed with cotton pads underneath. Lilac sent Pearl and me to notify the farmers that the time to pick up their baby chicks had come.
We were thrilled when we saw the little beaks appearing. The young chickens chipped away at the shells and worked their way out. Pearl called it a grand birthday party when all the chicks finally broke through.
“What beauties!” Pearl cried to the chicks hopping on and off her hands.
Lilac was too tired to celebrate. She snored, leaning against the wall, while Pearl and I counted the chicks. We put the chicks into baskets to be picked up. Lilac laughed and cried in her sleep. Her face glowed with pleasure. “What should be done in summer, you don’t do in spring!” she yelled. “Am I not right?”
“You are perfectly right, Lilac!” Pearl and I answered. We helped her to the bed, where she would sleep for days.
CHAPTER 4
It was early September. Hot, sweet air filled my lungs. Pearl and I ran down the hills. We passed little children playing with dirt and earthworms. We passed the town’s oldest man napping in the shade of a tree. I was thrilled because Pearl had finally invited me to her home.
“My mother doesn’t know that I am bringing you,” Pearl said excitedly.
“Will she . . . mind?” I felt nervous. “After all, I did lie.”
“Oh, she has long forgotten that.”
“Has she?”
“Mother said that sometimes people can’t be held responsible for what they do, because they don’t know God.”
I stopped. “What if she remembers? What if she tells me, ‘I don’t want a liar as my guest’?”
“Oh, she knows you, and she’s always liked you.”
“How do you know?”
“Willow, my mother was bound to adore you.”
“Why?”
“Because you can sing.”
I looked at her.
“Willow, my mother has been
trying to organize a children’s choir, but she can’t find any children who can sing or are willing.”
“She knows that I’m willing,” I said. “But I don’t know if she thinks I can sing well enough.”
“Yes you can.”
“My voice can’t hold the highest notes. It cracks.”
“Mother will teach you how to carry the high notes. Besides, the church songs are no Chinese operas. They are much easier to sing.”
“Will you sing too, Pearl?”
“Yes, I love singing, although I don’t really have much of a voice. But it doesn’t matter. I can sing ‘Jasmine, Sweet Jasmine’ forever.”
She began the tune and I joined. When we finished, Pearl began again in the Yangchow accent, and I followed. We sang in both Soochow and Nanking accents, too.
“Do you have a favorite Chinese opera?” I asked after we exhausted all our accents.
“The Butterfly Lovers!”
“That is my favorite too!”
“The Ming dynasty version or the Ching dynasty version?” Pearl asked. I was surprised at her knowledge. “The Ching version, of course.”
She nodded and then we began.
I live by the Yangtze River near its source,
While you reside farthest down its course.
You and I drink water out of the same stream,
I haven’t seen you though daily of you I dream.
When will this river water cease to run?
When shall I not love you, the way I do?
I only wish our two hearts would beat as one,
And you wouldn’t disappoint me in my love for you.
Hand in hand we walked along the riverbank. I asked if she was allowed to sing Chinese opera at home.
“Are you kidding?” she mocked. “Absalom allows no other sound than God’s.”
I asked if she got along with her parents.
“My parents use a fork and knife; I use chopsticks.”
* * *
Both Absalom and Carie were out when we arrived, so Pearl gave me a full tour of her home. The house was a three-room bungalow made of brick and wooden boards. The middle room served as a living and dining area. On each side were bedrooms. Pearl shared hers with her baby sister, Grace. Her parents’ bedroom had a big wooden bed. The sheets were washed white and made of coarse cloth. The stains on the wall showed a leaky roof. The place was extremely clean. Even the worn-out furniture glowed. Pearl pointed out the pink curtains. “Mother made them herself with fabric from America.” On the side of the house there were two large ceramic jars containing water from the river. I was surprised that the family lived just like us.