Frog (32 page)

BOOK: Frog

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When you read this, Sensei, you will think I’m either crazy or dreaming. I admit there are issues with Gugu’s mental state, and my wife had been yearning for a child for so long that she wasn’t quite herself emotionally, so I ask for your compassion and understanding where they are concerned. Anyone burdened with feelings of guilt must find ways to comfort herself, as Xiang Lin Sao did in the Lu Xun story ‘Benediction’, a character who, as you know so well, offered a threshold for people to walk on to atone for what she considered her crimes. Clear-headed people were wrong to have laid bare her illusions, and should have given her hope, let her gain release, have no more nightmares, and live a life free of guilt. I have complied with their wishes, I even strive to believe in whatever they believe in. That seems like the proper thing to do. I know that people with scientific minds will laugh at me and that the moralists will criticise my decision, and that some of the more enlightened might even go public with their accusations, but none of that will change me. For the sake of the child and for the sake of Gugu and Little Lion, who had once been saddled with special work, I’m perfectly willing to muddle along the way I’ve been going.

Gugu had Little Lion lie down and expose her abdomen so she could listen with a stethoscope. When she was finished checking her, she placed her hands – hands that Mother had praised many times – on Little Lion’s abdomen and said, Five months, I’d say. It sounds good, clear, and well positioned.

Past six months, Little Lion said with notable embarrassment.

Get up, Gugu said as she gently patted Little Lion’s belly. Age could be an issue, she said, but I recommend natural birth. I don’t favour caesarian sections. A woman whose child has not passed through the birth canal misses out on much of what a mother should feel.

I’m a little scared . . .

I’m here, so what’s there to be scared about? She held up both hands. You need to place your trust in a pair of hands that have delivered ten thousand babies.

Little Lion grabbed hold of Gugu’s hands and held them to her face, like a pampered little girl.

I trust you, Gugu, I do.

Great news, Sensei!

My son was born early yesterday morning.

Because my wife, Little Lion, was well past the prime age for a first pregnancy, even the doctors at the Sino-American Jiabao Women and Children’s Hospital, reputedly holders of PhDs from British and American medical universities, refused to be in attendance during her labour. Naturally, we thought of Gugu. Old ginger is still the spiciest. My wife trusted no one more than Gugu, whom she had assisted in countless births and who had witnessed Gugu’s composure during many crises.

Little Lion went into labour when she was working the night shift at the bullfrog-breeding farm. By rights, she should have been at home resting at that stage in her pregnancy, but she stubbornly refused to take that advice. When she walked through the marketplace, preceded by an enormous belly, she was the recipient of idle talk and of envy. People who knew her greeted her with: Dear Sister-in-law, why aren’t you home in bed? Brother Tadpole is a cruel man! What’s the big deal? she’d reply. When the fruit is ripe it drops on its own. Farming wives routinely have their babies in cotton fields or in groves of trees. It’s the pampered women who have all the problems. Old-time practitioners of Chinese medicine share her views. People within earshot mostly nod their heads in agreement. Hardly anyone voices a different opinion to her face.

When the news reached me I rushed over to the breeding farm, where Yuan Sai had already sent my cousin to fetch Gugu, who arrived in a white surgical gown and mask, her messy hair tucked into a white cap. The look of intense excitement in her eyes reminded me of an old packhorse. A woman in white led Gugu to a secret delivery room, while I drank tea in Yuan Sai’s office.

A black leather, high-backed chair rose up behind a burgundy-coloured desk the size of a ping-pong table in the centre of the office. A stack of books on the desk was, surprisingly, topped by a little red Chinese flag. Even a bandit can be a patriot, my friend, he said sombrely, anticipating my question.

He poured tea into the special service and said proudly, This is Da Hong Pao, a fine tea from Mount Wuyi, and while it may not be the gold standard, it is of such high quality that I won’t serve it even for the county chief. But I’m serving it to you to prove I have style.

Noticing that I wasn’t paying attention, he said, There’s nothing to worry about when I’m in charge. Nothing can go wrong. We don’t normally ask your aunt to come over. She is Northeast Gaomi Township’s patron saint. When she’s on the scene, the results can be stated in eight words: Mother and son doing fine, everyone is happy.

After a while I fell asleep on the leather sofa and dreamed of Mother and of Renmei. Mother was dressed in shimmering satin clothes and was leaning on a dragon-headed cane; Renmei had on a bright red padded jacket and green trousers, absolutely countrified yet still lovely. A red cloth bag was slung over her left shoulder, a yellow knit sweater peeking out from the opening. They were pacing the hallway, Mother’s cane making an unhurried clack on the wooden floor that filled me with anxiety. Won’t you sit down and take it easy, Mother? I said. Pacing back and forth, you two, is putting everyone on edge. She sat on a sofa, but only for a moment before taking to the floor, where she sat in the lotus position. Sitting on a sofa, she said, makes it hard to breathe. Renmei, looking timorous, hid behind Mother like a shy little girl. Every time I looked her way, she avoided my eyes. She took the sweater out of her bag and opened it up; it was no bigger than the palm of my hand. That’s just about the right size for a doll, I said. I measured the baby in me to make it the right size, she said as she blushed. That drew my attention to her belly, which was noticeably swollen. The slightly mottled skin on her face proved she was pregnant. The child in there can’t be that small, can it? I asked. Her eyes reddened. Xiaopao, she said, ask Gugu to let me have this baby. Have it right now, Mother said as she banged her cane on the floor. I’m here to protect you. An old woman’s cane hits a debauched monarch on high and traitorous officials below. An ugly death awaits anyone who tries to stop me. She tapped a button on the wall, and a hidden door slowly opened. The room inside was bright as a sunlit day, revealing an operating table covered by a white sheet, on either side of which stood two people in surgical gowns and masks; Gugu was at the head of the table, also in white and wearing rubber surgical gloves. When Renmei entered and saw what awaited her, she turned to run, but Gugu reached out and stopped her. She cried like a helpless little girl. Xiaopao, she called out to me, in the name of our long marriage, help me . . . As sadness penetrated my heart, tears fell from my eyes. With a sign from Gugu, the four women – nurses apparently – picked Renmei up, placed her on the operating table and, working together, removed her clothes. I looked down and saw a tiny red hand between her legs. The little thumb was touching the tips of the last two fingers, leaving the first two fingers to form the international ‘V’ sign: Gugu and the others burst out laughing. When she’d gotten that out of her system, Gugu said, That’s enough horseplay. You can come out now. A little baby began slipping out, looking around as it emerged, like a sneaky little critter. Taking aim, Gugu grabbed it by the ear, wrapped her arm around its head, then pulled with all her might. I want you out of there! There was a loud pop and an infant, covered with blood and a sticky substance lay in Gugu’s hands . . .

I woke up with a start, feeling cold all over. My cousin walked in with Little Lion, who was holding swaddling clothes, from which husky cries emerged. My heartiest congratulations, my cousin said softly, you have a son.

My cousin drove us to my father’s village, which had already been incorporated into a metropolitan district. As I wrote in a previous letter, it is a village that retains its cultural characteristics on orders from our county chief – now promoted to mayor – with the early Cultural Revolution style of buildings, slogans painted on the walls, revolutionary signs at the head of the village, loudspeakers mounted on poles, an open spot for bringing the production brigade together . . . dawn had broken, but there was no one on the streets, only some early morning buses speeding along with a few ghost-like passengers, and some street sweepers, with everything but their eyes covered, raising clouds of dust with their brooms on the pedestrian paths. I desperately wanted to see the baby’s face, but the look on Little Lion’s face – more sombre than a pregnant woman, weary, and overjoyed – nipped that thought in the bud. A red bandana was wrapped around her head, her lips were chapped as she held the baby close to her and kept burying her face in the blankets, either to look at her baby or to inhale his smell.

We had already moved everything the baby would need to Father’s place, mainly because it was so difficult to find a milk goat, and Father had arranged to buy milk from a villager named Du. They were raising a pair of milk cows that together produced a hundred jin of milk every day. Father made it clear that they were not to add anything to the milk they sold us. Grandpa, the villager said, if you don’t trust us, you can come milk them yourself.

My cousin pulled up and parked outside my father’s gate. He was waiting for us. With him were my second sister-in-law and some young women, probably nephews’ wives. Second Sister-in-law grabbed the baby as the young women carried Little Lion out of the car and into the yard, and from there into the room we’d prepared for her convalescence.

Second Sister-in-law opened the bundle to let Father set eyes on this late arriving grandson. Wonderful, he said over and over, tears in his eyes. And when I saw the dark-haired, ruddy-faced infant, my heart filled with emotions, my eyes with tears.

Sensei, this child helped me recapture my youth and my inspiration. While the gestation and birth might have been more difficult, more torturous than most, and while issues concerning his status might create some thorny problems, as my aunt said, Once it’s seen the light of day, it’s a life and will become a legal citizen of the country, entitled to all the rights and benefits of the country. If there is trouble, that is for those of us who permitted him to come into the world to deal with. What we have to give to him is love, nothing more.

Sensei, tomorrow I will spread out some writing paper and complete the laboured birth of this play. My next letter will include a play that might never see the stage:

Frog
.

Dear Sensei,

I finally finished the play.

So many things in real life are tangled up in the story told in my play that when I was writing I sometimes could not tell if it was a true-to-life record or a fictional work. I finished it in a period of five days, like a child who can’t wait to tell his parents what he’s seen or thought. I know it’s a bit of an affectation to compare myself to a child, but that is exactly what I was feeling.

This play ought to constitute an organic part of my aunt’s story. Though some of the incidents did not actually occur, they did in my mind, and that makes them real to me.

Sensei, I used to think that writing could be a means of attaining redemption, but when the play was finished, instead of lessening, my feelings of guilt actually grew more intense. Although I can trot out an array of rationalisations to absolve myself of responsibility for the deaths of Renmei and the child in her womb – my child, too, of course – and place the blame on Gugu, the army, Yuan Sai, even Renmei herself – that is what I did for decades – now I understand with greater clarity than at any other time that I was not just the chief culprit, but the only one. For the sake of my so-called ‘future’, I sent Renmei and her child straight to Hell. I tried to imagine that the child carried by Chen Mei was the reincarnation of the unborn child, but that was nothing but self-consolation. It served the same function as Gugu’s clay dolls. Every child is unique, irreplaceable. Can blood on one’s hands never be washed clean? Can a soul entangled in guilt never be free?

I long to hear your answers, Sensei.

Tadpole

3 June 2009

Frog

A PLAY IN 9 ACTS

Dramatis Personae

GUGU
, a retired obstetrician, in her seventies

TADPOLE
, playwright, Gugu’s nephew, in his fifties

LITTLE LION
, one-time assistant to Gugu, Tadpole’s wife, in her fifties

CHEN MEI
, surrogate mother, in her twenties, a fire victim with a disfigured face

CHEN BI
, Chen Mei’s father, Tadpole’s elementary schoolmate, a vagrant in his fifties

YUAN SAI
, Tadpole’s elementary schoolmate, Bullfrog Company boss, secretly engaged in a ‘surrogate mother company’, in his fifties