No, she couldn’t. No, they hadn’t tortured her. Not her body, at least. No. No. No. He shouldn’t worry about her. She was fine. Considering. No matter how hard he tried, Xiao Hu found it difficult to understand her silence. Say something, Yin-Yin, he said, when his questions led to nothing. Just tell me what happened. He wanted to write down what she said; the more details, the better. He wanted to hear what had happened to her, thus hoping to lessen her burden.
The things you could not talk about, you had to keep your silence on. She could not say anything. She was not there yet. Not for a long time yet. She held everything at a safe distance: her brother; Johann Sebastian Weidenfeller, whom she had broken up with right after she had been set free; her violin; the symphony orchestra. Even Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert.
She had dared to come out of her hiding place—or had been forced out of it—only once: when she had scattered her parents’ remains. A small heap of gray ashes. Inconceivable. They had stood on the beach looking at the grayish-brown East China Sea and opened the urn. A moment of weakness. When she saw how some of the ashes trickled into the water and dissolved there while the rest were lifted into the air by the wind, carried away, and blown in all directions forever.
Then she had rested her head on her brother’s shoulder and cried. Not sobbed, just a few tears before she had herself under control again. She had learned that in her five weeks of captivity: control, not to lose control.
Xiao Hu interrupted her thoughts. “Will you call me if you’re ever not well?”
She nodded.
“If you need help?”
“Yes.”
“If you like, I can come and visit you,” he offered, though he guessed she might stay away for a long while. “I have time now.”
“I know, thank you.” She was sorry that she couldn’t really share with him how she felt. She had him to thank for her release, and she was proud of him. He really had risked everything, and it was thanks only to a combination of unreliable factors such as luck, coincidence, and the political expediency of the moment that he too had not been arrested and that they had not both vanished into labor camps or a psychiatric ward. Shortly after her release, Xiao Hu had handed in his notice to China Life. He had told his sister that he too needed a rest, though, unlike her, he did not know yet exactly how he would be spending his time. He would look through offers from headhunters in due course, or set up his own law practice. Yin-Yin looked at her brother’s profile. From this angle he looked like their father, which she liked. He was now her only immediate family. So near. So far. He meant well, and had generously given her the money for her trip. But she still needed distance. Even when saying good-bye. He hugged her, and she did not resist.
Could one be a stranger to oneself?
The power of darkness.
* * *
Paul Leibovitz was nervous. Yin-Yin could tell from the way he kept looking at the display board, from the way his gaze flickered all over the hall.
She was not sure how she would greet him. Initially after her arrest, she had seen him as an ally; the thought of him, his encouragement, his confidence, had given her strength in those first few days. At times she had even gotten the crazy idea that he would get her released. After a week, disappointment and rage took over. Everything was his fault. He was safe in Hong Kong; he had more liberties. How naïve she had been. Now he was abandoning her. But those feelings passed too. What remained was an indefinable feeling of annoyance that she herself had yet to put her finger on.
When he finally spotted her, an uncertain smile flitted across his tense face.
He hugged her awkwardly.
“How was the flight?” No one was safe from pleasantries.
“Good.”
“Have you been to Hong Kong before?”
“No.” She had already told him that in an email.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
He picked up her suitcase and led her to the Airport Express. He stopped twice on the way to show her the impressive construction of the roof and told her a little about the architect and how the airport had come to be built, in only eight years . . . complete with highways . . . two suspension bridges . . . a tunnel through the harbor . . . a masterpiece.
Yin-Yin stopped listening, wondering what was wrong with him. He was behaving like a guide. How could he think that these things would be of interest to her now?
She wanted to stay three days, but she absolutely did not want to stay in a hotel on her own. Since her aunt’s apartment was clearly too small, Paul and Christine had offered for her to stay with them; his house was big enough. Now Yin-Yin doubted that it was a good idea.
At first they sat in uneasy silence on the train as they glided almost noiselessly through a landscape of water, green hills, high-rise buildings, containers, and cranes.
“Have you heard that three more Sanlitun managers were arrested yesterday?” Paul asked.
“My brother told me about it,” she said casually.
“Isn’t that great?” When she did not respond, he added, “Even lots of Chinese papers are now carrying detailed reports on this story.”
She nodded.
“Did you know that it has all made headlines internationally?”
“No. Actually, yes. Xiao Hu said something about it.” What did he want from her? For her to embrace him in happiness? To be grateful to him? She was not interested in all that. More than a dozen managers and officials had been arrested. Three factories had been closed, at least for now. Lakes, rivers, and fields were apparently being thoroughly tested. Everyone affected by the pollution would have recourse to damages. Discussions were under way as to the level of compensation. The storm of protest on the Internet had swelled in a few days, and the official censor had stood by without taking action, for whatever political reasons it might have had. It either wanted to make an example of Sanlitun, which Xiao Hu suspected, or the pressure from the public had been so great that the authorities had no longer dared to ignore it. Or perhaps the case was simply ideal for the government’s environmental protection campaign. Television broadcasters and state-owned newspapers were all allowed to run reports on the case. Despite this, she did not feel proud, nor did she have any sense of triumph.
Her parents were dead.
Yes, she was free again, but for how long? The end to her imprisonment had seemed as arbitrary as her arrest. No one had told her why she had been suddenly taken back to Shanghai. No one answered her questions. No one took responsibility. There could just as easily come a day when there were men standing outside her door again, forcing her to go with them. They had let her go, but they had not returned her sense of security.
The inner act of detachment. Thus does one have the freedom to leave. She had detached herself, but she did not know what from. She felt like driftwood floating on the sea. The freedom to leave. She had chosen it without any idea of where the path would lead her.
Paul sensed that she was not interested in his questions. He looked at her, and when their eyes met, he did not look away. “I’m glad to see you,” he suddenly said in a familiar tone of voice, which she remembered from Shanghai. “Please excuse all the nonsense in the airport earlier. I’m”—he searched for the right word—“I’m a little tense.”
“Why?” She was not feigning ignorance.
“Because I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Was it your fault?”
He gave her a thoughtful look.
“It’s a question, not an accusation.” She did not want to be misunderstood.
“I was careless.”
“You were.”
“I never have thought it would go so far. I . . .” A questioning look. As though she could finish the sentence for him. “I completely underestimated the situation.”
“Are you saying that we should not have done anything?”
“No, that’s not what I mean, not after everything both of you have achieved. But I was too careless. I want
to apologize for that.”
Yin-Yin nodded, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
“How did they . . .” She heard his hesitant voice. “I mean, was it . . .”
She could tell that he wanted to ask the same questions that her brother had. She could not share the experience, not with him either.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
They sat next to each other in silence for a while.
“Do you believe in Chinese astrology?” Paul suddenly asked.
“Yes, of course,” Yin-Yin said, surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I went to see a fortune-teller some weeks ago; he prophesied that I would give life this year. That has come true.”
“And?” She did not understand what he was getting at.
“He also said that I would take life. Hasn’t that come true, at least indirectly, with the death of your parents?”
Yin-Yin thought for a moment. “In a way, yes,” she said, and tried to smile. “Couldn’t you have told me that earlier? Do I have to watch out now? Did he predict anything else?”
“No.”
His cell phone rang. Christine. She was not feeling well, had severe nausea. She apologized for not being able to come to Lamma, but hoped to make it tomorrow.
“What would you like to do?” Paul asked after he had spoken to Christine. “Should we have something to eat in town, or should I get some food and cook for you at home?”
“Can you cook?” she asked, surprised.
“Christine says I even cook very well.”
“Then let’s cook. But not Chinese.”
“What, then?”
“Something special. Maybe Italian?”
The confusion in his eyes amused her. “Italian? I can’t.”
“German?”
He laughed out loud. “No, not a single dish.”
“Then I’ll cook.”
“You? What?”
“Spaghetti with spicy tomato sauce. A student from Rome taught me. They call the sauce il classico there, I think. It tastes great.”
They went to a supermarket and bought Italian pasta, canned tomatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, olives, fresh basil, Parmesan cheese, and, Paul insisted, a bottle of wine from Tuscany.
She enjoyed the ferry journey to Lamma, and liked arriving on the island even more.
Paul became short of breath pulling her suitcase up the hill.
The first thing Yin-Yin noticed in the hall was the child’s raincoat and rain boots.
He took her up to her room; it was on the second floor and was painted all white; two red lanterns hung from the ceiling. She had never seen such a clean and tidy house.
She looked out the window at the garden in bloom.
“It’s lovely here. A little paradise.”
“Thank you. Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes. And I’m getting hungry.”
In the kitchen, she sliced onions and garlic, fried them in olive oil, and added three sliced chilies. Paul opened the bottle of wine.
He passed her a glass, and they clinked glasses without saying anything.
Yin-Yin put the tomatoes in the pan, turned the flame up, and stirred the mixture. The red sauce was soon bubbling vigorously, and some of it fell outside the pan with a dull plop.
Paul sat at the bar and watched her.
“Sorry I’m making a mess of your stove.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She stirred some more, washed the basil leaves, and cut them into fine strips.
“You’ve grown too thin,” he said.
“Is that bad?”
“It depends. Are pounds the only thing you have lost?”
A strange question, that she had not yet asked herself. “What else?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I haven’t been imprisoned for five weeks.”
“No, you haven’t,” she said tensely. They were walking a thin line. Yin-Yin did not want to answer lots of questions, even if he was asking them more subtly than her brother had. What had she lost in that small room, apart from weight? Trust? Probably, but in whom or in what, she did not know. A carefreeness that her father had sometimes scolded her for? Possibly. Her belief that things would turn out right? Her mother’s illness had already robbed her of that.
“Maybe I’ve also gained weight?”
Paul gave her an earnest look. “Gained weight? In what way?”
“Not on my physical body,” she said in a tone of voice that made it clear that she did not want to continue this train of thought.
He sipped his wine pensively. “How long will you stay in New York?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I’ll see. Two or three weeks. Maybe longer. I think I’d like to study at the music school there.”
“What are you looking for there?”
“I’m not looking for anything. I’m visiting a friend.” Was she not expressing herself clearly, or was he trying to provoke her? “What strange questions you ask.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to annoy you. I . . . I . . . just want to know how you are, really.”
“You can see that for yourself.” How was she supposed to reply to his questions when she did not have the answers yet herself?
Yin-Yin turned the gas flame down so that the sauce would not burn.
“I have something for you,” he said, standing up and going upstairs. When he returned, he was holding a slightly crumpled envelope. It was addressed “To Wu Yin-Yin.” Her father’s handwriting. It was glued shut and had a red seal on it.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was in your parents’ house on the table, under the book.”
She stared at the envelope in disbelief. “My brother said there was no letter of farewell.”
“I was in the house for a while before him, and I put it away without telling him about it,” Paul said, a little embarrassed. “It’s addressed to you. I’m sorry if you feel that was wrong.”
She took the letter from him, sat down, hesitated, and wondered if she had the strength. Her left leg shook violently—as a result of her imprisonment, her limbs sometimes started twitching uncontrollably.
With her heart pounding, Yin-Yin opened the envelope.
To limit her emotions to the minimum necessary for survival.
My darling Xiao Bai Tu!
She lowered the piece of paper. Xiao Bai Tu. Little White Bunny. Her childhood nickname. Bunny is no more, she thought. Bunny is dead.
What are we thinking in our final hours? Of our children, what else? You are all that will remain of us. You live on—through you we have outwitted death. The thought of leaving you and your brother alone made me question my course of action for a moment. But you are old enough. You don’t need us any longer; on the contrary, we would have grown to be a burden. Are already one. If I had not had the idea of trying to press charges, you would not be imprisoned in a secret place now. Your suffering is my fault. I can only ask you for forgiveness. Mr. Leibovitz has told me what you did. I admire your courage and am very proud of you. You did the right thing.
I have not always been so brave in my life. I did something terrible once, and have never had the strength to tell you about it.
Yin-Yin stopped reading. Whatever it was, she asked herself if she wanted to know. She looked at Paul as though he could answer this question.
“What is it?”
“My father. He . . . He wants to tell me a secret.” She paused. “I’m not sure I should read on.” She put the letter down on the table. Did Paul know what this was about?
“It must have been very important to him for him to tell you about it,” he said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the time to write this to you in his final hours.”
Was she allowed to go against the wishes of her father? This letter was meant for her regardless of whether she liked the contents or not. She picked up the letter and continued reading.
My silence was a big mistake. I know
that now, but it’s too late.
Darling Xiao Bai Tu, your father was a weak person. I allowed myself to be misled. I did not fight back. It was the time of darkness, and I took it for a time of light. I was not the only one, but that is no excuse. It never is. I betrayed my father. I led the Red Guards to our house. He leaped from the window because of me. His death is my death. What horrors can conceal themselves in words. I have only said these things once in my life, to your mother. She forgave me. Without the protection of her love I would not have survived. Now I am going with her.
It hurts me that I will not live to see whose love will protect you and Xiao Hu.
Your brother knows about all this. Not because I told him but because he read it in the party files. Till the end, he could not forgive me for it.
Perhaps you’re asking yourself why I never had the courage to talk to you both about it. I can’t answer that question. Shame was one reason. Regret. I tried many times, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I can only ask for your understanding and for you to look kindly on this.
With love,
Your Papa
She read the final sentences twice, thrice, suddenly felt Paul’s hand on hers, and looked up. “Do you know what it’s about?”
He nodded. “I think so. Before I went to your parents’ house, Xiao Hu told me about how your grandfather died.”
So many questions and thoughts were whirling through Yin-Yin’s mind that she found it difficult to keep track of them all. Why had her brother not told her? Neither before the death of their parents nor after? Were there other family secrets that she knew nothing about? How would she have reacted if her father had spoken to her about it? With accusations? By distancing herself from him? She couldn’t imagine that. Who was she to lecture him on anything? How old must he have been? Twelve? Thirteen? A child!
The letter changed nothing about her love for him. He was the person who had held her hand when she learned to walk; who had taken turns with her mother to watch over her at night when she was sick; who, along with Min Fang, had encouraged her to study music. Whose belief in her had seemed inexhaustible. To her, he was the same strong, silent, and loving father as he had ever been.