A Hundred Flowers (27 page)

Until then, I’m here. I’m here.

Wei

Wei waited for Sheng in the same stark, windowless room of the correctional facility. He was alone this time, no other visitors to capture his attention. He sat down at the same table by the door, his finger automatically tracing the route of the Yellow River scored across the table. It somehow brought him calm, a quick means of escape.

Wei heard footsteps coming down the hallway and looked toward the door, but the steps passed and faded. Not long after, more voices rang down the hallway as the room grew warm and stuffy. He took off Sheng’s sweater and draped it across the back of his chair. His clever plan was to hand the sweater to Sheng when they parted as if it had been his all along.

Another half hour had gone by, when finally, the door swung open and he saw a thin, gaunt Sheng with a shaved head standing in the doorway. He glimpsed the young boy who stood quietly at the doorway of his library again, too shy to speak to him. Wei’s heart pounded at the sight of Sheng. He wanted to say his name out loud to make sure he was really there and not a figment of his imagination, but Sheng’s face appeared hard and closed, and Wei instead whispered his name to himself. Only then did it occur to Wei that his son might not want to see him.

The guard pushed Sheng forward and he walked toward Wei and sat down in the chair across from him. Only when Sheng was seated and facing him did he relax and appear more himself again.

“Ba ba,”
Sheng said, his voice low and hoarse, his eyes softening. “You’re really here.”

“I had to come,” he said.

Wei reached across the scarred table and touched the sleeve of his son’s thin cotton tunic. He needed to touch Sheng, to have proof that he was really there sitting across from him. Wei could see how Luoyang had taken its toll on him. Sheng had aged; he was too thin, his skin pallid, his eyes sunken, his hands scraped and calloused, dried blood on his knuckles, the stubble on his chin and the shadow of growth on his shaved head making him appear even sicklier. And for the first time, he saw traces of his own father in his son’s dark eyes.

Wei cleared his throat. “We haven’t heard from you in so long, we didn’t know what to think. I had to come,” he repeated. “I had to make sure—”

“I know.” Sheng quickly finished his sentence. “I’m thankful. There was nothing I could do. My work team manager stopped sending my letters. I never received any of yours after the first few.”

“But why?” Wei asked.

“It was his way of punishing me.”

Wei refrained from asking too many questions. There was too little time now for long explanations. It was a world that made no sense to Wei, and he needed to remember only what was important to bring back to Kai Ying and Tao.

“How are they?” Sheng asked. “Kai Ying and Tao? Auntie Song?”

It was as if he had read his mind. Wei heard an edge of desperation in his son’s voice.

“They’re well,” Wei answered. “They miss you.” He quickly told Sheng all the important details, including the arrival of Suyin and her baby, while downplaying Tao’s fall from the kapok tree and breaking his leg.

“But he’s all right?
Sai Lo?
” Sheng asked, sounding worried.

“He has a limp, but it’ll get better with time and exercise. He’s been a very brave boy.”

Sheng ran his hand across his head. “What was he thinking?” he said under his breath. “Why would he suddenly climb the tree?”

“He’s a boy,” Wei said. “I recall you were quite a climber in your day.”

“Yes,” Sheng said, and finally smiled.

When the guard stepped back to light a cigarette, Sheng leaned closer to Wei. “I have a letter I need you to bring back to Kai Ying.”

“Yes, of course.”

Wei hadn’t thought about what Kai Ying would have wanted him to bring to Sheng: a letter or message, herbs, anything that might help to keep him going. Once again he’d failed her.

“Kai Ying had no idea I was coming to see you,” Wei said. “I was afraid she would try to stop me. I left a note.” He paused for a moment and then said, “I should be the one in here, not you.”

Sheng shook his head.

“Kai Ying knows I wrote the letter,” Wei continued. “They all do. I’ve created a world of grief for all of us.” He swallowed.

“
Ba ba,
you don’t need to explain—”

Wei waved his hand to interrupt. “You’re here. I’ve seen you, touched you. At least I can bring that back to Kai Ying. But can you ever forgive me for writing the letter?” he asked. His fingers felt for the gouge in the table, following it to the edge.

Sheng leaned even closer to him. “Forgive you? You don’t need to ask for forgiveness for writing the truth. I would have done the same, given time. I’m here for the both of us. We’re more alike than either of us knew.”

Wei saw the color return to Sheng’s face again as he spoke.
We’re more alike than either of us knew.
His words hung in the stale air of the ugly room.

Sheng continued to talk. “The most difficult thing has been not having contact with you and Kai Ying. Everything else I’ll survive.” He turned around to see the guard smoking and quickly took the letter from inside his tunic and passed it to Wei, who slipped it into the pocket of his
mein po.
“You’ll tell them I’m well.”

“Yes, yes, of course I will. I’ll see that Kai Ying gets this,” he said, patting his pocket. “Is there anything else I can do?” Wei asked.

“You can give Tao a hug for me. He must have grown so much I’ll barely recognize him when I see him.”

“It’s been difficult. He misses you,” Wei said. “He hates me for what I’ve done to you.”

“When Tao’s older, he’ll understand what this was all about,” Sheng said. “And he’ll be proud of his grandfather for walking into the storm.”

Wei smiled, remembering his own words.

“It’s time,” the guard said, suddenly back and hovering over them.

“Please, a moment more,” Wei pleaded.

“It’s time,” the guard repeated.

They both rose from the table and Wei reached over and placed his hand on Sheng’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I let so many years slip by.” He felt the tears pushing against the backs of his eyes.

Sheng squeezed his hand before letting go. “Tell Kai Ying and Tao that I miss them. I’ll see them soon, I promise.”

Wei nodded. He patted the letter in his pocket.

Sheng smiled before he was led out of the room, the door clicking closed behind them.

Wei sat back down and stared at the door, hoping Sheng might return even when he knew it wasn’t possible.
We’re more alike than either of us knew.
Even if Sheng had forgiven him, how could he ever forgive himself?

It wasn’t until Wei finally stood up that he realized he’d forgotten to give Sheng the woolen sweater that still hung on the back of the chair.

Wei

Wei opened his eyes. The hollow, rocking motion of the train had lulled him to sleep. It was dark outside. He shifted on the hard seat, his sore back a constant reminder that it was still a day’s journey until he arrived back in Guangzhou. Wei looked across the aisle at the empty seat, wishing Tian was sitting there again, sipping from his bottle of rice liquor, ready with another story of love and loss. Before Wei left Luoyang, he wanted to send Kai Ying another telegram, but he barely had enough money for the train ticket back home.

Wei pushed himself up and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. It was almost Tao’s bedtime and he suddenly wondered who’d been reading stories to him since he’d been away. Wei couldn’t remember the last time Kai Ying had read to Tao. It had always been Wei’s favorite time of each day, and he hoped it might be the one moment Tao would think kindly of him again.

Wei reached into the pocket of his
mein po
and touched the edge of Sheng’s letter for Kai Ying, the most important accomplishment in his long career, a letter that would bring his daughter-in-law some much-deserved happiness. It was a thought that eased the ache of having left Sheng behind. Even with his son’s forgiveness, there would always be the guilt, the precious time he’d stolen away from Sheng and his family. It was his burden to carry and he would try to make it up to them in any way he could. Wei sat back and looked out the window, his own weary reflection staring back as the train traveled onward through the darkness.

Kai Ying

Kai Ying walked out to the courtyard. For the very first time since Tao had fallen from the kapok tree, she paused in front of it. It seemed as if an entire lifetime had passed in the five months since. She had collected all the green leaves that had dropped and the flower petals before them, and now the tree stood skeletal, the branches remaining bare until the nut-sized pods miraculously appeared again by the New Year, followed by blooming red flowers in the spring. It was always Sheng’s favorite time of the year, the sweet perfumes and the hum of bees filling the air. Although Kai Ying knew it was foolish, she still dared to hope that they would all be together again by then.

Kai Ying stepped closer to the tree. At least let her hear from Wei soon, she thought. The gash that her father-in-law had left in the trunk was a scar now, slightly deeper in color and hardly noticeable if you weren’t looking for it. Kai Ying’s fingers traced the smooth wound. She thought of it as just another example of nature’s genius; the kapok tree had healed itself.

From the kitchen, she heard Tao’s and Suyin’s voices and smiled. She turned at the sound of the gate whining open, although she wasn’t expecting another patient so late in the afternoon. Instead, Kai Ying’s heart skipped a beat when she saw that it was Wei.

Wei

Wei wondered if he looked as tired and defeated as he felt. When he stepped off the train, his legs were still shaky from the long trip. He could hardly believe he was back in Guangzhou, but as he pressed his way through the swelling crowds, the sheer tremor of bodies and voices, the smell of exhaust and the pungent aroma of roasting chestnuts made him step to the side and stop for a moment to take a breath. His satchel, still bulging with his clothes and the woolen sweater he’d carried back, suddenly felt too heavy. It was only on the walk back to Dongshan that he’d begun to feel himself again. By the time Wei pushed open the gate to the courtyard, it was with both relief and trepidation. He hadn’t expected to see Kai Ying standing by the kapok tree.

“Lo Yeh,”
she said. He heard the surprise in her voice as she moved toward him.

“Kai Ying,” he said. He couldn’t imagine how disheveled he must appear. He put his satchel down where he stood.

“I was so worried…”

Before she could continue, he quickly reassured her. “I’m fine … and so is Sheng.”

“You saw him?”

Wei nodded.

“He’s alive,” she whispered.

“He’s alive and well,” he said. “I wanted to send a telegram, but the train ticket back took everything I had left.”

“But why, why haven’t we heard from him in all this time?” she asked.

“They’ve been withholding his letters,” Wei said. From the pocket of his
mein po,
he extracted the folded piece of paper. “He asked me to give you this letter.”

A small cry emerged from Kai Ying and she turned away. When she turned back to take the letter from him, he saw the tears in her eyes. Without saying another word he embraced her, her body stiff at first, before slowly relaxing against his. A moment after, she leaned in closer and whispered into his ear, “Thank you.”

*   *   *

Later that evening the house was quiet when Wei returned from walking Song back to her apartment. He made his way upstairs to his room, exhausted. He had brought back Sheng to them, every little detail saved for this evening, as if he’d been holding his breath all the way back from Luoyang and finally able to exhale. He stopped on the landing when he saw a sliver of light coming from Tao’s room. His grandson had been almost shy upon seeing him, saying very little all evening. Wei knocked once lightly and opened the door.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Wei asked, and then smiled.

Tao lay in bed and shrugged. “Will
ba ba
be coming home soon?” he asked.

“As soon as he can
,”
Wei answered.

“Did he say anything about me?”

“He misses you terribly.”

Wei watched his grandson. His hair had grown back in the weeks since he’d been gone and he appeared older. He couldn’t imagine what Sheng would see when he returned, a boy where there once was a small child. It suddenly stung him to realize that he wouldn’t be there to know Tao as a man, although he could already see Sheng in him, a bit of the storm, who might one day have his own son and understand how important these past months were to Wei. He swallowed and stepped into the room.

“How’s your leg feeling?” he asked.

“I still limp,” Tao answered.

“Well, it takes time,” Wei said.

“Maybe by the time
ba ba
returns,” he said.

Wei nodded and smiled.

“You’re not going anywhere again, are you?” Tao suddenly asked.

“Not for a while.”

“You promise to tell me the next time you do?”

“I promise.”

“Ye ye?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me a story?”

Wei hesitated. “It’s late,” he said, but then sat down on the chair by his grandson’s bed and stroked his whiskers.

“What do you want to hear?”

“Houyi and Chang’e,” Tao answered.

Wei glanced out the window, the shadows of the kapok tree looming. It would still be standing long after he was gone, and the thought brought solace.

“There’s no moon,” he said.

“There’s still the story,” Tao said, ready to listen.

A
LSO BY
G
AIL
T
SUKIYAMA

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