Kinder Than Solitude (19 page)

We thus conclude our letter with our best regards. Seeing our words is like seeing us in person
.

Sister Wenlu and Sister Wenshu

2nd of September, ’89

Ruyu
,

Your letter, written on August 24, has arrived safely, and we have read it with care. We are pleased that you have settled down, and that Aunt and Uncle and Shaoai are nice and caring, and that you have made friends
.

Once again, we would like to remind you that, since the day you were sent to us, you have been a chosen child of God. We trust that you understand your purposeful journey henceforth, and that you know how to live discerningly among people who do not understand this about you
.

All is well here; hence no need for you to worry about us. Seeing our words is like seeing us in person
.

Grandaunts

2nd of September, ’89

In separate rooms, Aunt and Ruyu read the letters that had arrived in the evening post. Both put the letters away afterward, yet neither was able to shake off the mood brought about by the correspondence. Instinctively Ruyu knew that the last—and the only—letter she had sent to her grandaunts had disappointed them. It was the first real letter that Ruyu had written—if one did not count the school assignments to write holiday greetings to conscripts at the local military camps or the House of Glory, where veterans from the Korean War and earlier conflicts aged and died. She would not have written had it not been for the repeated urging of Aunt.

Ruyu had not known what to say to her grandaunts, as they had never relied on her words to know her. In the end, she had sung the praises of her hosts and neighbors and asked about her grandaunts’ well-being, as she imagined a letter should. But her grandaunts’ words succinctly reminded her of her place in life, as they had always done when she had been younger and had been caught in an excessive
expression of her feelings. With a gaze or a shake of the head, they would stop her from laughing or fussing or crying; any emotion—be it happiness or sadness, anger or contentment—was a sign of human arrogance. Think about how you appear to the eyes above us, they would say, neither gently nor harshly, and afterward they would direct her to a quiet corner. A moment of reflection, they said, was not a punishment but an opportunity for her to learn to put some distance between her and whatever triviality had made her laugh or cry. One is always watched, they explained to her; one’s life is lived under all sorts of eyes, but only one pair counts.

That she modified her behavior according to her surroundings, and wrote a letter that could only be written by someone like Moran, who seemed to consider it a paramount goal to please everyone around, must have dismayed her grandaunts. Ruyu wished she had had a stronger mind than a foolishly impressionable one: everyone she met in Beijing seemed keen to change her somehow, as though what mattered was not what she was but the possibilities she offered for others to imagine another person. Even Watermelon Wen’s twins had told her that she would look exactly like the young actress in a popular TV program for children if she smiled more. Sister Ruyu, maybe you could be a TV star and we could go on the program with you, the boys said aloud, and Ruyu wondered why not a single grownup in the courtyard would stop their nonsense.

But there was no need to fret about her grandaunts’ letter, as to dwell upon their reaction was to live again in human eyes. The truth was that what
they
thought of her mattered no more than what others thought of her. Their goal, her grandaunts had repeatedly told her, was to bring her to God; if she could stop living for them, suppose she could stop living for him, too? This notion, having never occurred before, took her breath away. Instinctively she closed her eyes, asking for his forgiveness.

At dinner, Ruyu was especially remote, and her silence, combined
with Shaoai’s sullenness, unnerved Aunt. She had not shown her husband the letter from the two old women; she had to at some point that night, but she needed time to recover from their words. She could not really tell which sister had penned the letter, as both sisters, she remembered, had the same unfeminine penmanship in the old style of the Wei Dynasty. She herself had been trained, when she had been under their charge, to practice the same style of calligraphy by copying out the words inscribed on ancient tablets. She had not been a brilliant student; she had looked foolish in their eyes, ineducable. Earlier, when she had opened the letter, she had felt her heart race; the severe handwriting on the envelope, each stroke carrying the weight of disapproval, had made her feel small again, intimidating her into a mindless daze.

“Did you read your grandaunts’ letter?” Aunt asked Ruyu when the silence had become unnatural. “Were they happy to get your last letter?”

Ruyu nodded but did not offer anything more to continue the conversation.

“I do think they sounded happy,” Aunt said. “At least in their letter to us.”

Shaoai made a sound as though laughing through her throat, but Aunt did not yet want to turn her attention to her daughter. Since the beginning of the new school year, Shaoai had been to the university only a few times. It was the fourth year of her study, and she should be getting an assignment for an internship soon. Her parents’ fear, though, was that the school would not assign anything to Shaoai, thus disqualifying her for graduation and making it impossible for her to secure a permanent job.

“They asked about you,” Aunt said to Ruyu again after a thoughtful bite. “I think you like the school, no?”

“Yes.”

“And the coursework—is it heavy? Can you follow everything all
right? If you have questions, ask Boyang and Moran. Well, Boyang is probably a smarter bet if you have questions about your studies, but Moran can help with everything else.”

Ruyu said all was fine. The first week of school had been a whirlwind; half of her classmates, like Ruyu herself, were new to the school, but Moran and Boyang—coming straight from the middle school section and knowing the school well—had been hovering around her the whole time, making certain that she would not feel left out. The school was about a thirty-minute walk away, but it seemed never to have occurred to Moran and Boyang that Ruyu would prefer walking to school by herself. Every morning they left the quadrangle together, three of them on two bicycles, and every evening returned the same way.

“And the accordion practice? Your grandaunts asked especially about that.”

She had had a lesson with Teacher Shu, Ruyu said, and he liked her playing all right. She had hoped to stay in the music room for practice as long as she could after school, but within a week, Headmistress Liu had gathered the incoming high school students and briefed them about an urgent political assignment: on the night of October 1—the fortieth birthday of mother China—the students were to participate in a celebration at Tiananmen Square with four hundred thousand of their fellow citizens. To prepare for this assignment, Headmistress Liu continued, all students were expected to stay after school for two hours each day, practicing group dancing and later attending dress rehearsals at the levels of subdistrict, district, and city.

“Do you have enough time for the accordion?” Aunt asked.

She practiced every day for half an hour after lunch, Ruyu said, and she hoped that after the month of dancing practice, she would have more time in the afternoons.

Shaoai raised one eyebrow. “So you are going to be one of the lucky citizens to celebrate our Communist victory? What an honor.”

Aunt looked at Uncle pleadingly. When he did not speak, she sighed. “Don’t speak in that manner, Shaoai,” she said. “Ruyu doesn’t have a choice.”

Shaoai leaned toward Ruyu as though she hadn’t heard Aunt’s words. “Have you thought of boycotting it?” Shaoai asked.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Ruyu said.

“You know, skipping practice here and there, or, maybe better, skipping the celebration altogether,” Shaoai said. “My mother can get you an excuse note for a sick leave—don’t you think, Mama?”

“It’s a political assignment,” Aunt said. “I don’t want you to give Ruyu wrong ideas about things.”

“I’m teaching her to use her own brain to think,” Shaoai said. “She’ll never learn that from school.”

Uncle sighed and placed his chopsticks next to his bowl, adjusting them so that they were perfectly paired. “Let me ask you a question, Shaoai,” he said. So rarely did he participate in the dinner conversation between Shaoai and Aunt that the room seemed to suddenly take on an unfamiliar mood. “There will be four hundred thousand people at the Square for the celebration. According to your estimate, what percentage of those people have the ability to think independently?”

“Zero, if you ask me,” Shaoai said. “The ones who do will find ways not to go.”

“So suppose Ruyu listened to your advice and did not go to the celebration. How could her absence affect the celebration?”

“I know where you’re leading me. No, if she did not go, nobody would notice. But what if those four hundred thousand people all had the guts not to go?”

“Practically speaking, what is the probability of that happening?”

“Well, if not four hundred thousand, how about four hundred, or four thousand?”

“Let’s say four thousand boycott the celebration. What difference do you think their action would make? The live broadcast would still
show four hundred thousand people gathering to celebrate. Yet those four thousand would probably face disciplinary actions afterward. Who do you think their action would harm but themselves and their families?”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. We should all stay obedient, follow orders, and let cowardice direct our lives,” Shaoai said, adding after a moment of hesitation, “just like you.”

Aunt’s face looked intense. She opened her mouth as though she were about to say something but caught herself just in time. She left the table to close the only open window in the room, and then brought out a fan from her bedroom and switched it on.

Uncle’s face, calm as always, seemed unaffected by Shaoai’s words. He looked down at his chopsticks and readjusted them. “When I was a little younger than you, the civil war was still going on, and there was no telling which side was going to win. I remember going to teahouses with Grandpa, and on the wall of every teahouse was posted this single rule:
Do not talk about politics
. Grandpa pointed it out to me and said it was a lesson any responsible person should learn. Now, if you think about the different governments and revolutions he has been through, what better lesson could he have given his children?”

“But have you thought that it’s people like him, and people like you, who have made this country impossible for our generation? That’s why we have to do the fighting: because you haven’t.”

Ruyu felt all of a sudden tired. Bored. She wished she could tell Shaoai to stop being a clown who took herself too seriously. At school when Headmistress Liu had announced the political assignment, some of the students had bemoaned the loss of time for playing basketball or Ping-Pong after school, but Headmistress Liu had no patience for any of the complaints. “When we talk about a political assignment, we’re talking about a political assignment, not a children’s game,” she had said. “Be positive. Consider it an opportunity
to get to know your new classmates. Enjoy the dancing for the sake of dancing.” Oddly, those who had complained the loudest seemed to have come to enjoy dancing the most. Indeed, just as Headmistress Liu had predicted, the dancing practice after school became a daily party for the three hundred first-year students, the outer circle of boys and the inner circle of girls rotating in different directions, giving the boys the opportunity to hold each girl’s hands.

“Every generation recognizes easily what they are owed by the last generation,” Uncle said. “Every generation thinks they can achieve what the last generation have not. We’ve had enough revolutions in our lifetime because of that thinking.”

“But this is going to be our revolution. It’s going to be completely different from yours. All your revolutions came from following the lead without thinking.”

Uncle nodded, looking exhausted. When he did not speak up again, Aunt said tentatively, “Of course we understand what you’re saying. But young people tend to forget about their own welfare. As your parents, we consider it our responsibility to remind you not to go to extremes.”

“So that you will have a daughter safe-at-hand to see that you’re well taken care of when you grow old, like Grandpa has you and Baba?” Shaoai asked. “If that logic stands, it’s even more reason for Ruyu to become a revolutionary. Who could be better fit for the job than an orphan?”

Aunt took a sharp breath, and Uncle frowned, but neither said anything right away. Tauntingly, Shaoai looked at Ruyu, despising her, the younger girl thought, because Shaoai had a pair of parents and she had the luxury to disregard their love. Ruyu looked straight into Shaoai’s eyes and smiled disarmingly. In a courteous voice, she said that she was afraid she was a disappointment to Sister Shaoai, as she did not have an ounce of revolutionary blood in her.

Shaoai pushed her chair backward and stood up. “I don’t think
you’ll ever understand me, nor will I accept your view, so let’s forget about this,” she said to her parents, though her eyes had not left Ruyu’s face.

Uncle and Aunt watched Shaoai pick up her bicycle key and walk out to the yard, greeting Boyang’s grandmother in a falsely pleasant voice. Watermelon Wen said something across the courtyard, and in a moment several neighbors joined in. How was the beef stew, someone who must have seen Aunt cooking earlier asked Shaoai, and she replied that it was the same as always. Count yourself lucky to have beef to eat, Boyang’s grandmother said. In 1958, her husband’s family in Henan Province couldn’t even find good tree bark to stuff themselves with.

Aunt fidgeted. She looked at Uncle’s bowl and said that if he’d finished, there was no need for him to wait for her. Aunt worried when she and Uncle were late to the courtyard gathering after a meal, as though their absence would be taken as a negative statement. Uncle nodded and said he would go out and represent the family in a minute. The courtyard was a stage that neither Aunt nor Uncle could imagine missing, and both made their best efforts to be good participants—he by quietly smiling and nodding, she by always talking about the positive side of any issue at hand.