Journey Across the Four Seas (12 page)

The night we arrived at the outskirts of
Chungking
we held a celebration party. The boys went shopping and came back with a jug of orange juice. We raised our cups and toasted the success of our journey. The juice was so good I held out my glass for seconds. The local oranges must have been something special, for I’d never tasted a drink this delicious. The boys made more toasts and declarations, each one trying to outdo the other. Peter revealed a five-year plan to improve his financial circumstances. By the end of that time, he would be the proud owner of a Buick. Never again would he ride in a coal truck. We all drank to that.

Suddenly I felt light in the head. My friends’ faces became blurry. I could see them talking and jesting in front of me, but their voices seemed to be floating from far, far away. I rested my head on the table. The saddest thoughts came to my mind, and all the unfortunate events of the past flashed before me. My father died when I was three, Mother beat me to vent her frustrations, Fei
-
Chi gave me his TB, and so on. I was convinced that I was the unluckiest soul in the world. Tears thundered down my face in a waterfall.

This was the first time I got drunk. The boys had spiked the orange juice without telling me. While others grew boisterous under the influence of alcohol, I became an endless fountain of tears. There was nothing the boys could say or do to stem my flood of sorrow. Their party was ruined, and it was their own fault.

4

We set foot on
Chungking
around
noon
. The day was a scorcher, the first of many I was to experience in what was known as the Furnace of the Yangtze. The boys dropped me at the home of my friend, May Tung. They then went on to look for the Sino-British Cultural Association, which was responsible for hitching up
Hong Kong
University
students with universities in the area.

May was a dorm mate who had given me a standing invitation to stay with her family in
Chungking
. Her father, a director in the Bank of China, was stationed there. Before leaving Hong Kong, she’d gripped my hand and urged me to look her up in
Chungking
. She promised me that her home would be mine.

May squealed with delight when she saw me. True to her promise, the whole family welcomed me with open arms. Her father assured me he would help me in any way he could, and her mother put me up in the guestroom, which had a canopied bed covered with sparkling white linen. Before I could put my head on the immaculate pillow, however, I had an urgent matter to raise.

"May, I have to tell you something," I said once we had a moment alone. "You know how it is making the trek to
Chungking
. I’ve been sleeping in fleabag motels, on trains, even in the wilderness. A person can pick up things." I scratched my head unconsciously.

She backpedaled a few steps and told me to wait in the room. Before long Mrs. Tung came in, and in her tow was a maid armed with towels, combs, and bottles. Mrs. Tung, a genteel woman, cooed kind words to put me at ease. At the same time, she kept a safe distance to ensure that the lice on my head didn’t jump over to hers. I was so mortified I wished I hadn’t said anything.

The maid poured alcohol into my thick hair, rubbing it in layer after layer until my scalp was thoroughly soaked. She then wrapped a towel tightly over my head. I had to sleep with the turban on. The itch was terrible the first few hours, but after a while the irritation diminished and I managed to catch some sleep. The next morning, the maid unwrapped the turban and ran a fine-toothed comb through my hair. When she was finished, she showed me the white towel that had been draped over my shoulders. It was dotted with what looked like black sesame seeds.

Rested and cleaned up, I reported to the Sino-British Cultural Association. My first question was about my brother, Ngai. To my joy and relief, the staff located Ngai’s name on the roster. My brother had arrived safely and was already enrolled in
Wuhan
University
. He wasn’t actually studying in
Wuhan
, a central Chinese city that had fallen to the Japanese, but in the isolated mountains of
Szechwan
. I immediately understood why he’d chosen that college.
Wuhan
University
was famous for economics, and Ngai was dead serious about his major. I was happy for him, but sad that I wouldn’t be able to see him for some time. His campus was far from
Chungking
or any major city I could reach.

At the association I also learned about the government’s financial aid for displaced students. Since I wasn’t a scholarship student at
Hong Kong
University
as Ngai was, the support was minimal. It would be enough to cover tuition, but not room and board. I did my calculations over and over for several days, and they always gave me the same answer: going back to school was out of the question for now. I had to find work.

A total stranger in the city, I had no idea how or where to look. The only people I could turn to were my hosts, the Tungs. I talked to May, who passed my request on to her father. The word that came back down was most encouraging. Mr. Tung believed that some arrangement could be made. He knew somebody who knew Madam Chiang Kai-Shek. Well, the moment this message was conveyed to me, I thought my troubles were over. Madam Chiang, whose maiden name was Soong Mei-Ling, ran the country like her household. Her brother was Foreign Minister and her brother-in-law Finance Minister. For this reason the Kuomintang regime was nicknamed the Soong Family Dynasty. The government was filled with her protégés and people with the remotest link to her. If May’s father knew somebody who knew Madam Chiang, all he had to do was open his mouth and his wish would be granted.

Days passed, but there was still no sign of a job. A month went by, and my host family’s attitude started to change. Mrs. Tung, who’d treated me like a daughter, was now giving me the cold shoulder. I was quite puzzled at first—why did she turn the other way every time I greeted her? Had I said something to offend her? Finally, May cued me in. Some relatives were arriving soon, she said, and they would be staying in the guestroom. Did I know of any other place where I could park myself?

I bear them no grudge. What they did was perfectly understandable. It was wartime. Everyone had his own relatives to look after. Their hospitality was already more than any friend could ask for. The stay with them had given me time to recover from the trip and search out other old friends from
Hong Kong
. Among them was a former classmate from Italian Convent by the name of Dolly. She was staying with a sister who was married to a businessman from
Chungking
. Upon hearing of my desperation, Dolly introduced me to her brother-in-law. The man hired me on the spot. We agreed on a salary, which was enough to allow me to move into a hostel. The accommodation wasn’t ideal—I slept in a room with a dozen other women—but it was a step up from sleeping in the street.

The company was a one-room, two-man enterprise. One of the men was the manager, and the other’s function was never clear to me. There was only one desk, which the manager and I took turns in using. The work was easy—all I had to do was draft a letter in English every now and then. The manager had hired me for that purpose, as he, like most mainlanders, couldn’t speak a word of English. However, being a small company, there wasn’t that much English correspondence to handle. My superior wouldn’t let me touch any other work; so after sitting there for several months, I still had no idea what sort of business the company was involved in.

What bothered me more than the boredom was the summer heat. The high temperature, combined with the extreme humidity, turned the place into a steamer. I had to be careful of the surfaces I touched, for even the wooden desk could scald my fingers. The nights were no better, for in addition to the weather, there was the body heat of my numerous roommates. I often got up in the morning drenched in sweat and dizzy from fatigue. It was hard to tell whether I’d really slept or simply passed out. My fevers returned, as well as the tormenting headaches. The manager, who could see that I wasn’t well, sent me to his brother who was a doctor. After listening to my chest, the doctor told me my lungs didn’t sound good. He advised me to quit my job, stay home, and let my family take care of me.

I told him I didn’t have a family or a home to go to.

TAPE FOUR

BURNING IN THE THEATER

1

Having reached the end of the mountain and river, I fear there is no road ahead

The willows darken, the flowers brighten, and yet another village appears.
   

These lines of the poet Tao Yuan-Ming often circled in my mind those days. Like the traveler in the poem, my road had come to a dead end.
Chungking
wasn’t the place for me to live in, nor to die in. Could there be another village waiting for me? Or was it true that writers were full of lies?

As I stepped into the hostel, I collided with a woman coming out. Apologies flew out from both sides, and then we looked at each other. It was Renee, my roommate at
Hong Kong
University
! Her long plain face blossomed into a glorious smile and she instantly became beautiful. Renee had a way of rallying everything she had into her smile, transforming herself and everyone around her. I felt that the sun had come out after a prolonged period of rain. We grabbed each other by the hand and jumped up and down, screaming and laughing and studying each other. We were both more tanned and rugged, our hair had straightened from the lack of curlers, but the real changes, we knew, were internal.

After we’d calmed down, Renee told me what she was up to. She was on her way to Chengtu, another center in
Szechwan
for displaced universities. Chilu, a top-notch institution run by Canadian missionaries, had accepted her. My heart went sour with envy. Most
Hong Kong
University
students found placement at the public
Central
University
just outside
Chungking
. Only a privileged few got to Chengtu because the universities there were private and outrageously expensive.

When Renee heard that I was working, her face dropped. "What? You’re not in school? You’ve completed three years already, and you’re going to give it up now?"

"What can I do?" Not everyone has a rich daddy like you, I felt like saying. "I’ve been cut off from my family in
Bangkok
. If I don’t work, what am I going to eat?"

"Come to Chengtu with me. Money is not a problem. My father sends me ten thousand
yuan
a month. That’s more than enough to feed an entire family."

Her generosity left me speechless. I was grateful and ashamed at the same time. The idea of sponging off a friend didn’t appeal to me. Even the poor have pride. Yet I also knew that if I didn’t accept her offer, my health would continue to decline in this inferno.

"Oh come on, stop dithering," Renee said. "All you have to do is go to Professor King. He’ll write you a recommendation that will get you into Chilu. He’s come to
Chungking
. I saw him just a few weeks ago."

Off I went again in search of Professor King. I told him that the blistering weather in
Chungking
was bad for my health. Chengtu had a milder climate that would suit me better. I never quite told him that I had TB, but he must have guessed from my symptoms. He gave me a quick examination and said with a majestic wave of the hand, "There’s nothing wrong with you. Go out and get yourself a hearty meal!" Then he took out a letter that said that I was a student in good standing, and signed it. He probably believed that there was no other kind at
Hong Kong
University
.

He also told me to hurry to the British embassy. It was arranging transport for a group of students headed for Chengtu. There might still be room for me.

*

Renee and I flew to Chengtu on a British embassy plane. As it descended for landing, a green, luscious country spread out under me. The flowers brightened, and there was my village opening wide its arms. Even the poet Tao Yuan-Ming would be astonished at how his lines had come true for me.

A van took us to a district called Hua Hsi Ba. Hua Hsi, which means
West China
, was the name of a local university. It used to be the only institution in the area, but since the Japanese had swallowed parts of
China
, a number of universities had taken refuge here. There were
Yenching
University
originally from Peking, Jinling Women’s from Nanking, and
Chilu
University
from
Shandong
.

Riding in the van, I noticed that the town was as picturesque as a resort. A carpet of green grass rolled out for as far as the eyes could see. Along its edge ran a brook that wound around like a border of scalloped lace. A row of willows swayed in unison by the stream. Renee and I exchanged a look that bespoke the thought in our minds. This place was even more beautiful than our beloved
Hong Kong
University
, although we would never say it out loud.

After leaving our bags at a hostel, we went to check out the women’s dorm at Chilu. As soon as we walked in, we saw a young woman squatting on the floor. She was scrubbing her laundry with such verve that you would think this was life’s greatest enjoyment. When she overheard us speaking in Cantonese, she stopped her scrubbing and exclaimed, "You’re Cantonese! So am I! My name is Lui Wai-Jing and I’m from
Canton
!" She stood up and bounded over to us. This woman was a bundle of live wires. Her eyes flashed around to study us, while her tongue probed with questions on who we were and what we were doing there.

Let me interrupt my story to say this. Life is really a matter of chance. If I hadn’t run into this woman, I would never have met the man who would change my life. All I can say is this: people have to watch their step. The most insignificant accident can send their life reeling in a direction they never intended.

After chatting with our new friend, Renee and I went on to tour the dorm. What we saw was rather unappetizing. The place was a refugee camp, not a college dorm. Every room was crammed to the ceiling. Students slept in bunk beds stacked like coffins on top of each other. In the middle was a long table where roommates studied elbow to elbow. The floor was caked with several inches of dirt left over from the last dynasty. Renee and I weren’t expecting the luxury of
Hong Kong
University
, but still there were certain minimum standards we’d like to retain.

We returned to the hostel feeling despondent. The more we talked about it, the more we felt that we couldn’t possibly live in such cattle conditions. We decided to visit some of the other dorms.

The next day, we set out for
West
China
University
. Renee had an acquaintance who was studying there. Her name was Joan, also a Hong Kong University Student, but several years our junior. She met us at the entrance and brought us into the dorm. Immediately, Renee and I reacted with a unanimous "Wow!" The inside of the building was like a palace. Huge columns rose to a high, airy ceiling. They were lacquered a brilliant Chinese red, the color favored by emperors. Each pillar was so thick that three people had to join hands to encircle it. I couldn’t see what function they served except as monuments to extravagance. The floor was also covered with quality hardwood. Not only was it swept, it was also polished to a shine. Everywhere I turned I saw janitors hard at work cleaning the place spic and span.

Joan took us to her room. She shared it with only one roommate, who was out at the time. The two sides of the room were mirror images of each other: a bed, desk, armoire, and even a small vanity.

"Compared to the Chilu dorm, this is heaven!" I exclaimed.

"It’s probably because
West
China
University
has always been here, whereas the other universities are refugees," Renee reasoned.

"There’s another reason," Joan said. Her round, freckled face widened with a naughty smile. Lowering her voice to a thief’s, she explained, "The other name for
West
China
University
is
Mistress
College
. There are a number of students here who are mistresses of warlords. They’ve been sent here to acquire some knowledge so they can talk intelligently at cocktail parties. The warlords are the most generous benefactors of our university. Frankly speaking, I didn’t enroll here for the education. After the long hard trip, I needed a clean place to sleep."

Renee and I looked at each other. We couldn’t agree more. Without further discussion we went straight to the Dean of Admissions at
West
China
University
. There was no time to waste, for school was starting in two weeks.

"Why are you coming so late to see me?" said the Szechwanese in charge of admissions. "We can admit you, but I’m not sure there’s space in the dorm."

We kept quiet, afraid to tell him that our original choice had been Chilu. He sent us to see the warden, a British woman called Miss Taylor. Back we went to the dorm and knocked on the warden’s door. If the dean’s reaction were annoyance, hers was outright anger. She folded her skinny arms across her chest, pursed her old maid’s lips, and launched into us for being inconsiderate, irresponsible, and impossible. Renee and I hung our heads, trying to look contrite. After a while, Miss Taylor sucked in her breath with a loud hiss, like an engine run out of steam. "Come back to the dorm tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see what I can do," she said.

When we returned as told, Miss Taylor took us beyond the two floors into a narrow staircase. She presented us with the attic, cleaned, polished, and beautifully furnished. I wanted to throw my arms around her cadaver figure. The cranky warden had given us the largest room and one that commanded the loftiest view. This was a grand place to spend the next two years of my life.

2

There is a saying in English, "Misfortunes are fortunes in disguise." Let me explain how it applies to me. As I said earlier, I had the misfortune of having to repeat a class at
Hong Kong
University
. Had I passed and been promoted to fourth year, I would have been granted an emergency diploma during the Japanese invasion. Once graduated, the protection the university extended to its students would no longer apply to me.

The shortfall of three marks turned out to be my lifesaver. Because of them, I remained a ward of Professor King. He helped me get into
West
China
University
, where the workload was light and the campus was a park. The two years there were a much-needed respite. At the beginning of every term, every student was required to get a chest exam, and every time I came out with a clean bill of health. I’d never felt better, and for the first time I was actually plumping up. The dorm food, which was peppered with the tongue-numbing spices of
Szechwan
, was inedible to my bland Cantonese palate. I resorted to buying sweet yams from a peddler who passed by the dorm every day. My weight shot up to a hundred eight pounds. My wardrobe was in urgent need of expansion, but not having a penny to my name, safety pins had to do.

If it weren’t for the bucolic life at
West China
, I would have suffered the same fate as Ngai. The night before I got his letter, I had a dream. Two of my brothers, Yung and Ngai, were inside a theater with me. A fire broke out, and everyone dashed for the exit. Once outside I found Brother Yung, but where was Ngai? He’s burning inside, Brother Yung said. We wanted to go back for him, but it was too late—the entire theater was engulfed in flames.

Ngai’s letter reached me the next day. He told me he’d been burning from fevers caused by the dreaded killer, TB. He was also spitting blood. I immediately wrote him back, telling him to come to Chengtu for treatment. The universities in Chengtu jointly ran a first-rate hospital. Out in the boondocks where Ngai studied, the facilities must be primitive. That same day, I went to see Dr. Struther, Dean of Medicine of Chilu University. He was Professor King’s former colleague and had been entrusted with caring for
Hong Kong
University
students in Chengtu. The doctor was sympathetic, but he pointed out that Ngai wasn’t eligible for admission into the university hospital because it was reserved for students in the area. Instead, Dr. Struther wrote a letter to the director of the city hospital, asking him to admit Ngai.

The director, a local with cold lizard eyes, received me with aloofness. From the beginning I could tell that he had no intention of helping me. He’d agreed to see me merely to save face with Dr. Struther. Rather than turning me down with a flat no, the director shadowboxed with a Chinese response: "We have no beds at the present moment. We will notify you once a space opens up." I went back to the dorm and waited. More than a week passed, and there was still no word. In the meantime, Ngai had arrived and was paying for room and board at an inn. His money was running out, as well as his remaining strength. He was a shadow of himself, his ambitions gone and replaced by a vacant stare.

I was most disappointed in my own kind. When Dr. Struther, a foreigner, could be kind and compassionate toward us, how could a fellow Chinese be so heartless about our plight? I went back to Dr. Struther. In my presence he picked up the phone and asked for the director of the city hospital.