Letters in the Jade Dragon Box Read online

  The Chinese people have suffered years of want and oppression—misery created by the corrupt emperors and tribal warlords, by invasion from Japan and bloody civil fighting. This has made the people hungry for the food of stability. The words of the Communist Party leaders sounded good in many ears as they promised us a government that would care for us equally—no emperor, no peasant. A government run by the common man. A government that would give us food. They promised us a peaceful China.

  I was ten when Mao Tse-tung and the Communists fought their way into power, and I didn’t care anything about it. I cared only that my Auntie Mei-lan was going away for reasons I could not understand. She was the woman who cared for me after my mother died. My Auntie Mei-lan, who loved me. My Auntie Mei-lan, who loved to listen to Benny Goodman and to dance the quickstep.

  “Stop.”

  Wen-shan started at the sound of her uncle’s voice.

  “Is there more about my wife?”

  Wen-shan looked at the next characters.

  “No, the rest seems to be about Grandfather.”

  Wen-shan noted the anguished expression on her uncle’s face before he hid it behind his stoic mask.

  “Should I continue to the end?”

  “Yes, if there is not much more.”

  “Not much.”

  She read.

  One night when the wind blew and the bamboo swayed, I went to my father’s workroom. He had just finished a calligraphy writing. It lay on the table, drying. My father did not hear me, as I came on quiet mouse feet. He sat looking out at the half-moon and his face was sad. I crept to the table, hoping to see my name, but in his graceful hand my father had written “Stone does not yield.” I was young. I did not know the meaning of the words. Now I do.

  Wen-shan slowly rolled the scroll. Even if her uncle had been willing, there were too many questions and feelings that needed sorting before she could talk about what she had just read. She laid the scroll on the table and stood.

  “I . . . I think I’ll go to my bedroom.”

  Her uncle looked at her and nodded.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “No. I understand. There is much to think about.”

  “Yes. Good night, Uncle.”

  “Good night, Wen-shan.”

  “Oh, the kitchen cleanup!”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You will?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you, Uncle.” She moved toward her bedroom.

  “Wen-shan?”

  “Yes?”

  “You do look like your mother.”

  Her breath caught, but she kept walking.

  Note

  The “true gentle man”: In Confucian philosophy, the gentle or superior man’s goal was to set his feet upon the Way: “A gentle man has nine aims: to see clearly; to understand what he hears; to be warm in manner, dignified in bearing, faithful of speech, painstaking at work; to ask when in doubt; in anger to think of difficulties (consequences); in sight of gain to remember right.”

  Chapter 5

  The line for the movie was getting long. Wen-shan looked around. Where were her friends? She turned again and bumped into Wei Jun-jai.

  “Ah! Jun-jai! I didn’t see you.”

  “That’s because you were looking the other direction.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Is Song Li-ying here?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been saving places.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  Wen-shan’s face colored, and she turned away as though looking for Li-ying.

  “I hear this is a good movie.”

  “Me too.” Wen-shan turned back. “Benji. It’s a strange name for a dog, isn’t it?” She began giggling.

  “What is it?”

  “Li-ying didn’t want to come at first. She thought it was going to be a movie about a Chinese warlord.”

  Jun-jai laughed too. “Ah, Benji the Ruthless.”

  “When she found out it was about a cute little dog, she was happy.”

  “Yes. We should all be safe with this film. No ruthless warlords, or improper words, or rock and roll.” He gave her a crooked smile.

  Wen-shan growled. “My uncle is so old-fashioned! No rock and roll, Western food is terrible, and if it were up to him, he’d have me with two long braids down my back.” She stopped her tirade abruptly as she thought about her mother’s letter and how she would braid her hair.

  Jun-jai noticed. “My parents are old-fashioned too, Wen-shan.”

  “Really? But you are always so up-to-date, Jun-jai.”

  “They are old-fashioned when it comes to behavior and family respect.”

  “Not clothing?”

  Jun-jai smiled. “No, not clothing. In fact, my mother says the way I dress makes me look hip.”

  “She does not say that.”

  “She does.”

  “She says hip?”

  “Just today she said it.”

  “I don’t believe you, Jun-jai. I would have to hear her say it to believe you.”

  Jun-jai looked comically wounded. “You won’t believe me? One who has set his feet upon the Way?”

  Wen-shan giggled. “Oh, yes, I’m so sorry. I forgot. The great student of Confucius.” She sobered. “But maybe someone can talk of the Way and not actually walk the path.”

  Jun-jai sobered too. “Do you think I would do that?”

  “No! No, Jun-jai. I wasn’t thinking of you. I was . . . I was just thinking of people in general.”

  The crooked smile was back. “I see.”

  “Really. I just mean that if someone was following the Way, then wouldn’t their actions show it?”

  “That is the point.”

  Wen-shan put her hands in her jacket pockets. “Of course. So, you would be sure to follow the Confucius saying about ‘Don’t do to others . . . something . . . something.’”

  “‘Don’t do to others what you do not want done to yourself.’”

  “Yes.”

  “A superior man would believe that and attempt to fulfill it.”

  Wen-shan felt tears pushing at the back of her throat. She turned away. “Where is that Song Li-ying? We may have to go in without her.” Wen-shan could sense Jun-jai staring at her. She was afraid he would wonder why she was asking so many questions about Confucius. She didn’t want to say anything directly about her uncle not following the Way, for Jun-jai admired her uncle and would think her a sour girl for disrespecting him. Luckily Li-ying appeared around the corner of the building at that moment, and Wen-shan stopped obsessing and waved.

  “We’re here, Li-ying!”

  Her name being called out in public made Li-ying blush, but Wen-shan was glad for the distraction. Li-ying hurried quickly to them.

  “Oh, I’m sorry I’m late. I had to walk my younger brother to his friend’s house before coming,” Li-ying said in a rush.

  “No worries,” Wen-shan said. “Benji the ruthless warlord is waiting for us.”

  “Don’t tease me, Wen-shan. I didn’t know.”

  The line began moving, and the three friends shuffled along.

  “Good day, Wei Jun-jai,” Li-ying said.

  “Good day, Song Li-ying.”

  Two of Jun-jai’s friends from school stopped to talk to him, and Li-ying took the opportunity to pull Wen-shan aside.

  “Did you read any of the letters?”

  “We did.”

  “And?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not ready to talk about it yet, Li Li. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course, Wen-shan. I do, really. Does Jun-jai know anything about it?”

  “No, and I don’t want him to. Not yet anyway. You’re the only one I’ve told.”

  “And I will keep your secret.”

  Wen-shan thought she caught a glimpse of satisfaction flicker on Li-ying’s face but dismissed it. Li-ying was a true friend who was always honest.

  • • •

  Wen-shan arrived home from the mo
vie to find two of her grandfather’s paintings unrolled on the kitchen table. One was the painting of the Guilin Mountains she and her uncle had seen at Mr. Smythe’s home, but the other was new. Wen-shan felt a coil of resentment snake into her mind as she wondered why her uncle hadn’t waited until they could see it together. Had he read another of the letters too? Wen-shan took off her jacket and threw it over the back of the kitchen chair.

  “That doesn’t belong there.”

  She jumped at the sound of her uncle’s voice. He’d come quietly from his bedroom, catching her unawares.

  “You opened another of the silk scrolls?”

  “As you can see, I did.”

  “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  “How was your movie?”

  “What?”

  “Your movie—how was it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about the movie.”

  Her uncle calmly walked to the front room and picked up his paper. “So, it wasn’t good?”

  Wen-shan followed. “No. I mean yes, it was good, but that’s not what I want to talk about.”

  “I know. You want to talk about the painting, but I will not talk with you about it until you are calm.”

  Wen-shan seethed. She wanted to yell and stamp her feet, but she didn’t. She hadn’t done that since she was little, and she knew instinctively that it would not produce the desired results. She took a breath and calmed the thoughts bumping around in her head.

  “Was there a reason you opened the painting without me?”

  “Yes.”

  Wen-shan waited.

  “It was addressed to me.”

  “Oh.” She was glad she hadn’t yelled and stamped her feet. “My grandfather addressed it to you?”

  Her uncle laid down his paper. “You must remember, Wen-shan, that he is your grandfather, but he is also my brother.”

  She felt small. “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “Come. I will show you why I think he meant this painting for me.”

  They went into the kitchen and Wen-shan looked carefully at the stunning picture spread across the chrome and Formica table. It was done only in black ink and showed a gnarled cypress tree clinging to an outcropping of rock. The detail in the twisted trunk and limbs gave the tree character and life.

  “It is stunning, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She looked at her uncle as he studied the picture.

  “Do you know what the cypress tree and the rock signify?” he asked.

  Wen-shan shook her head.

  “Endurance.” He touched the edge of the paper. “This is taken from a work done hundreds of years ago by Master Wen-Zhengming. Master Quan had us study it in school. There is poetry that goes with it. Would you like to hear?”

  “Yes, I would.” Wen-shan held her breath. Never in their ten years together had she heard such gentleness in her uncle’s voice.

  Weighed down by snow,

  Oppressed by frost, with the

  Passing of years and months

  Its branches become twisted

  And its crown bent down,

  Yet its strength remains majestic.

  The word majestic floated in the air for several moments.

  “That was beautiful, Uncle.”

  He slowly drew his hand across the paper. “This is beautiful.” He was silent for a long time, and when he finally spoke, his voice was full of acceptance. “I think this is one of the reasons I joined the military. I had some talent, but I knew I would never do this.” He looked at her. “Come. Shall we read a letter?”

  “Yes. I’d like to.”

  They settled into their accustomed seats and Wen-shan unrolled the second scroll.

  I was four when my mother died, but I remember things about her. For many years my father would not listen. He told me it was impossible for me to remember anything. He said I was recounting some dream—some imagination. But when I finally told him of the great loom and my mother’s gentle hands moving the blue thread so fast, he was silent. I told him how I remembered that she limped when she walked because her mother had broken her toes and bound her feet. I told him that many times my mother would place her gentle hands on my head and say, “Kai-ying, I will never bind your feet. You might not marry well because of it, but you will make your own way on your big, comical feet.”

  Then my father opened the linen chest and brought out my mother’s tiny shoes. He gave them to me with a piece of soft blue cloth and an apology. I kept the cloth in the trunk with my clothes and toys. The shoes I threw in the trash heap. I did not like to think of my mother limping.

  Wen-shan looked up to find her uncle staring at her.

  “I remember the beautiful cloth your grandmother wove; blue was her special color.”

  “And her mother broke her toes?”

  “Foot binding was a common practice.”

  “It was barbaric.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were your wife’s feet bound?” Wen-shan could not believe those words had escaped her mouth. She was expecting a gruff reprimand, so she was surprised when her uncle smiled.

  “No. She had big, comical feet.”

  “Really?”

  “Actually they were just average-sized, but compared to feet that were four or five inches, they must have seemed large.”

  Wen-shan looked down at her own feet that were somewhat bigger than average. She’d never thought about them as beautiful or not beautiful. They got her from place to place just fine.

  “And my great-aunt was a good dancer, right?”

  Her uncle nodded. “A fantastic dancer.”

  “I wish I’d gotten to meet her.”

  “Hmm.” He picked up his paper, and Wen-shan knew the conversation was over.

  She held out the letter. “Can I take this with me to bed?”

  Her uncle nodded and she headed off.

  “Hang up your jacket.”

  She took it with her into the solitude of her room.

  After her nightly routine, Wen-shan climbed between the cool sheets and unrolled the parchment. I was four when my mother died, but I remember things about her. She was five when she was sent from Guilin. Why couldn’t she remember anything about her mother? She wanted to remember blue cloth, and her mother’s voice. Wen-shan read and reread the characters until they began to slide off the page. She laid the scroll on her night table and turned off the light. Just before the cozy blue of sleep overtook her, she thought she heard the mellow sound of Benny Goodman’s clarinet.

  Notes

  The Way: In Confucian philosophy, the practical teacher was concerned with the problem of man in society. The ideals which set a man’s feet on the path of the Way were the ideal of the “true gentle man” and the ideal of proper conduct, which included the proper reverence for ancestors.

  Mao Tse-tung’s political and philosophical opinions were diametrically opposed to the teachings of Confucius. When asked about the Confucian sentiment “Do not do to others what you don’t want done to your self,” Mao replied, “My principle is exactly the opposite: do to others precisely what I don’t want done to myself.” Mao was also opposed to the idea of honoring ancestors. He believed the people should consider Mao their father and honor only him.

  Foot binding: The practice originated in the Tang dynasty (928–936 ad), reportedly to imitate the small feet of an imperial dancer. When a girl was around the age of three, her toes were broken, curved under the ball of her foot, and then tightly bound in order to keep her feet from growing more than four inches. Small feet were considered beautiful, resembling a three-inch lotus.

  Chapter 6

  So, what do you think, madam? The antique table for twenty-five pounds and the sofa for sixty?”

  Wen-shan ran her hand imperiously over the fabric of the sofa. “I won’t pay more than fifty pounds. That’s my final offer.”

  The British salesclerk put his hand on his heart. He shook his head and his jowls wobbled. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear dear dear.”

>   Wen-shan covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Besides, the fabric is second-rate.”

  Now a look of shock jumped into the man’s expressive blue eyes. “Second-rate, madam? I’ll have you know that Pierpont and Pierpont Limited sells nothing that is second-rate.”

  “Oh, really?” She held his gaze. “Well . . . in that case, I’ll take four tables and two sofas.”

  A wide smile broke onto the clerk’s face as he hastily brought out his account book and wrote up the order. “Very good, madam.” He ripped off the slip and handed it to her with a flourish. “The goods will be delivered on Saturday!”

  Zhao Tai-lu came to the side of the man. “Is she bothering you, Mr. Pierpont?”

  “What? Oh, dear no, Mr. Zhao! Best customer of the day.” He winked at Wen-shan. “She is always a delight to have in the store. In fact, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll put her to work. She can help me close up.”

  “Yes, of course. It will take me about thirty minutes to check in the rest of the new shipment.”

  Mr. Pierpont clapped his hands. “Ducky!”

  Her uncle gave her a cautionary look as he turned back to the office.

  “He’s a fine man, that uncle of yours. I’m thinking of making him a partner.”

  Wen-shan stared. “Really?”

  “Yes. But don’t go blabbing about it, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “He’s been with me since my brother died.”

  “The other Mr. Pierpont.”

  “Yes, indeed! The other Mr. Pierpont. Some eighteen years ago.”

  “That’s a long time. That’s before I came to live with him.”

  “Indeed. Before you came. Before his wife died. Before my wife died.” Mr. Pierpont began walking around the sales floor, clicking off lamps and readjusting pillows. “Run and get the feather duster.”

  Wen-shan went to the front counter and rummaged in the cupboard until she found the duster. It was her favorite job. She followed closely behind Mr. Pierpont so they could talk.

  “You knew my great-aunt.”

  “I did, yes.” He paused as he reached for a light switch. “She was a remarkable woman, considering all she had to go through.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, yes, well. Don’t you know, what with being chased all over China by the Communists and having to live in that wretched refugee camp upon arriving in Hong Kong. And then . . .” He switched off a light and moved on.