The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [10]
Baba, he asks, why are we going to Lishan now?
Your grandmother is ill. The cigarette crackles as his father smokes it. She is very old. At any moment she could walk to the wood.
To the wood?
She could die. He squats down so that his eyes are level with his son’s; his breath smells rotten, decayed. Eyes watering, the boy stiffens his head so it will not turn away.
Do you know what they say about mothers when they die?
No.
If the children are there, then the mother can close her eyes. She can rest. But if the children are not there she can’t close them— she’ll always be looking, waiting for them to arrive. She dies with her eyes open.
But what about your classes?
I won’t teach my classes. Not this year.
What about Mama’s job? Don’t they still need her?
We think it’s better to be in the country this year, his father rasps. In my home place. Chairman Mao wasn’t born in the city, you know.
Of course not, the boy says stiffly. Chairman Mao was born in Shaoshan.
So this is like going back to our Shaoshan. Back to our roots. Just so you know that there are other places in the world than Shanghai.
Shanghai, Chen says. Shanghai—he reaches for the counter behind him and misses. For a moment everything is black, as if someone has pressed a hand over his eyes. He lurches, losing his balance, and clutches the edge of the sink. Porcelain smashes near his foot, and his shoe is suddenly warm and wet. He feels her hands on his shoulders.
Lao Chen! Ni xiao xin dian!
I’m all right, he says. You can speak English. Is it the teapot?
What happened? Should we call a doctor?
A little dizzy. I didn’t eat this morning. Lao Jiang, he calls out. Bring a broom.
Crazy old fool, Mrs. Sze says from the table. Come on! My eyes are killing me.
All right, he says. Xiao Ma pushes him gently from behind; he reaches out and feels the cracked vinyl cushion, and places his hands lightly atop the old lady’s forehead. Aiya, she murmurs. Better.
Were you thinking about Shanghai?
What?
You said something about Shanghai. Were you having a day-dream?
Ah. Yes, it must be. Maybe I hear something on the radio.
A moment passes. She turns the page, and begins to read again.
In the morning the boy opens his eyes and stares at the rusting slats of the bed above them. The sky outside the window is the color of dirty snow. He pulls a hand from beneath the blankets and holds it up to the light; it is as pale as boiled chicken skin.
Wei, his sister mumbles, jabbing an elbow into his side. Stop moving! Go back to sleep.
Jie-jie, he says. Tell me again.
Tell you what?
What you remember.
It’s a very small place, she says. Just a bunch of houses with court-yards. And green fields on all sides. It’s in a valley, you know, but you can never see the mountains, they’re always hidden in the clouds. You won’t like it there.
Why not?
The boys are rough. They’ve hardly been to school at all—they only work in the fields. They like to fight. And they say dirty things all the time.
I’ve been in fights.
Don’t be ridiculous, she says. You shouldn’t resist them. Just make friends with the toughest one, the leader. Teach him how to write bad words. Otherwise they’ll tie a stone around your neck and throw you in the river.
The boy curls his arms around his stomach and turns to face the wall.
I’m only joking, she says. You take everything so seriously.
The family in the room above his listens to the television at full volume; the sound echoes in the pipes and rattles the window-panes. In the winter he lies in bed with his headphones on, listening to the radio, but now he opens the window and moves his chair against the wall so that he can lean his head back on the sill and doze to the faint sound of traffic, ten stories below. Coming out of the dream,