The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [11]
You will go mad this way, he thinks.
Thirty-one years. And you have not yet leaped from the train.
He lifts his head slightly. A feeling of danger lingers in the distance, a sound barely within range. Old Chen, he thinks, what’s wrong with you? What do you have to be afraid of?
Last year at this time, he remembers, we went to the flower market, Lao Jiang and his wife and I, each of them holding an elbow. Peonies, orchids, amaryllis. Buffeted by clouds of scent, like a perfume factory. Last year I wasn’t afraid of dreams.
And what has changed recently in your life, old head?
The American girl.
He sits up straight, and then stands, pacing the room, taking deep, angry breaths. It isn’t possible, he thinks, she’s done nothing wrong, she only has a soft heart. But then there are the funny questions she asks sometimes, the talk of interviews. He laces his fingers together and pulls them apart. Isn’t she only a polite girl?
How could she possibly know?
Tell me again what is you study, he says to her. He is washing his hands between customers, craning his neck to hear her over the hiss of the faucet.
Anthropology.
No, no. Your project.
Patterns of adjustment over time, she says. The way people who have survived traumatic upheavals adapt to changes in their environment later on.
Ah.
Taking the situation now in China as an example. The last ten years: 1988 to 1998. And then the decade before that— beginning with Deng Xiaoping’s election. And then the twelve years before that.
He feels as if someone has knocked against his chest like a door.
Cultural Revolution time, he says, reaching for a towel. So long ago.
For some people it’s as if it were yesterday.
He dries his hands carefully, rubs his palms together and massages his face; there is a sharp pain between his eyes that will not go away. Here there many protests, he says, remembering what Lao Jiang has told him. Riots. Always police in the streets. I stay inside for many days.
Hong Kong was lucky, she says. One woman I met in Wuhan was locked in the same room for a year with her three little sisters. One of them died. One jumped out the window. One went crazy. The man that was responsible is now the head of her work unit. Still lives down the street from her.
Anybody can make a story, he says. How you know who to believe?
I trust them. And I ask lots of questions.
He turns and spreads a new towel out on the table, smoothing its wrinkles. Lao Jiang, he thinks, don’t be so shy, come interrupt us. Tell a joke, for once. Talk about the weather. But the shop is quiet and sleepy. A fly drones past his ear.
Let me give you an example, she says. If you were someone I wanted to interview, first I would listen to you tell your story. In a very relaxed way—no pressure, not too many questions. Then I would go around and talk to other people, and see if they remembered things the way you did. Maybe I could find a document, some kind of official record. Then I would come back and ask the hard questions. Connect the dots.
He laughs, too loudly; the sound reverberates harshly in the small room. I think you have a hard time with me, he says. I am orphan, you know. I do not even know when I come from China. In the 1950 nobody keep this kind of record.
Is there any way of finding out? What about your passport?
Why need passport? Where I go?
You never tried to find out about your parents? Where you were born?
He wets his handkerchief under the tap and wipes his face.
It is impossible. But finding out not so important.
I think I could help you, she says. The records must be there somewhere. At least we would know when you came, and who brought you. Maybe even your age.
Xiao Ma, he says. I have no story for you. Nothing tell.
But I might be able to help you remember.
Why? Why you want do this for me?
So that you can know.
Just for me? All this work?
Also