The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [14]
I don’t want to go, the boy says. He is sitting on his bunk, his legs drawn up to his chest. All around him the train makes its cooling noises, little hisses and clanks: they have just drawn into Lishan. The lights in the train have been turned off; his father, in the doorway,is silhouetted in the flickering light of candles and battery torches. Boys in the corridor are playing guess-fingers. Two! Six! Ah, shit! Seven!
What did you say?
I don’t want to.
This is your home, his father says. Our home. Grandma is waiting.
How do you know?
Don’t be ridiculous. Come on, they won’t stop long. Get up!
I can’t see anything, the boy says. He presses his hand to the burning-cold window. I thought it would be daylight. I want to see the mountains.
You’ll see them in the morning.
Baba—
His father reaches out and pulls him off the bed by the collar.
As soon as they step out onto the stairs they can see the signs, written in huge characters on sheets of newsprint; some of them are lit from behind, like paper lanterns. Immediately he recognizes his father’s name, everywhere, on every one.
Chen Zhaolu capitalist roader Chen Zhaolu May sixteenth leader Chen Zhaolu China’s Khrushchev Strike down landlord Chen Zhaolu
Arms pull at him from ten directions; his father seems to melt into a crowd of shouting people, Red Guards, soldiers, villagers. Someone loops a string around his neck and suddenly he is wearing a placard that bangs against his knees. He looks down, trying to read the characters, and a hand seizes his hair from behind and yanks his head upright. Put on the cap! someone yells. Put on the dunce cap! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!
I knew it! I knew it!
What? he starts out of his chair. What is wrong?
You said gou zai zi, she says. You were a gou zai zi. In 1967. That’s how it happened.
You make mistake.
The movement to the countryside. You went out from Shanghai—how old were you? Ten? Eleven?
The demon speaks, he thinks. The demon is loose.
You lied to me, she says. Why did you lie?
He drinks from his teacup with a shaking hand, and cold tea splashes his leg.
Zuo ba, he says, loudly, harshly. Sit down. Lower your voice.
Lao Jiang and his granddaughter are quiet. Chen struggles to his feet, feels his way along the wall to the door, and closes it.
I am sick, he says, still holding the door handle, speaking to the wall. You must understand this. When I am standing, when I am walking, I have this dream. All during day I have it. I can not control.
Not dreams, she says. Memories. You have a disorder caused by trauma. Do you understand what that is?
No matter which word.
Mr. Chen, she says, forgive me for saying this. Your face is covered with scars. Anyone can see you weren’t born blind.
Ni gen tamen yi yang, he says. You are the same as them. How long did you spy on me? How many times?
The shop is dead silence. Her breaths are quick and jagged; she is crying, he thinks, or about to. Let her cry.
It’s in your files, she says. At the Services for the Blind. Where you came across the border, where you were found. I’m sorry, Mr. Chen. I thought that you would trust me. I thought you would tell me yourself.
A fly circles lazily around his head, once, twice.
I can choose, he says. I not choose be born in Cultural Revolution time. I not choose take away from my parents. I not choose leave China. I not choose learn English. But I choose not talk to you.
There’s no need to be ashamed.
I not shame. Shame not the point.
You’re holding on to it, she says. Let it go. Let it out.
He turns toward her voice and shakes his finger at the air.
There are no words, he says, his throat suddenly dry. No Chinese words. No English words. You can never describe.
Maybe not. But it’s important to try.
The fly’s buzzing makes him dizzy; for a moment he is standing in a strange room, wondering why his cane is not in his hand.