Pearl of China (25 page)

C
HAPTER
34

For the next four years, the people of Chin-kiang were forced to watch this film as part of the punishment called “mind reform.” Chin-kiang was cut off from the outside world. I had no idea that history was about to change.

In January 1976, Premier Chou En-lai died. Rumor said that the man had spent his last days pleading for Mao to end the Cultural Revolution. He tried to convince Mao that to save the economy was to save the public’s respect for the Communist Party. Chou En-lai suggested that his replacement be the former vice premier Deng Xiaoping, who had been in exile for years. Mao didn’t listen. He insisted on carrying on the revolution. Nobody was aware that Mao himself was reaching the end of his life. Madame Mao, on the other hand, figured that her time had finally come, and she positioned herself to take power after her husband.

Like everyone else, I was forced to attend the self-criticism meetings. I was eighty-six years old. I followed the crowd and shouted slogans. Inside my mind, I continued to cherish my dreams. I did not desire longevity. It was just a way of life for me to indulge in my past. I had no idea that Pearl had quietly passed away in 1973, less than a year after her request for a visa to China had been rejected.

One morning in October, Bumpkin Emperor went about the town striking his gong and shouting, “Down with Madame Mao and her gang!”

We all thought that he had gone mad.

What was unusual was that Vanguard didn’t come out to arrest Bumpkin Emperor.

“Madame Mao has been overthrown!” Bumpkin Emperor continued. “Deng Xiaoping has taken power!” Bumpkin Emperor tried to convince the people that he was not crazy, but nobody believed him.

A week later an official announcement came from Beijing. What Bumpkin Emperor had told us was true. Madame Mao and her gang had indeed been arrested and were in prison. All her victims, including the people of Chin-kiang, were liberated.

Vanguard was tossed aside as if he were Madame Mao’s trash. My daughter, Rouge, was appointed by the new regime to replace him. Rouge was offered an instant membership in the Communist Party. The decision came from the top. It was the Communist Party’s way to compensate our family for the loss of Dick. Rouge’s only condition was that she be allowed to keep her Christian faith. Papa would have been proud of his granddaughter.

The excitement produced an unexpected tragedy. Carpenter Chan had a stroke after getting drunk during the celebration. He was laughing when it happened. The smile froze on his face. His grandchildren thought he was playing dead with them. They kept pinching his nose. By the time the doctor arrived, it was too late.

The first thing Rouge did as the town’s new boss was hold Carpenter Chan’s funeral. The ceremony took place in the same church he had built for Absalom half a century ago. In his will, Carpenter Chan named Bumpkin Emperor as the next pastor for the Chin-kiang Christian Church.

I sat behind the rows of benches and watched the wide-eyed children. Although their parents had been members of Papa’s guerrilla church for years, this was the first time they had been able to worship openly as a Christian family. Also, it was the first time the church had officially opened its doors in decades. Curious people poured in just to look.

Over the years, we had lost Carie’s piano. But Carie’s songs had survived and been passed on through generations. The children were fascinated by the modern tape player. It played Christmas melodies Lilac had bought from a Hong Kong tourist. “Amazing Grace” remained the all-time favorite.

I closed my eyes as I followed along with the lyrics. I could feel the spirits of Carie, Absalom, and Pearl. I smiled when I remembered how the wood beams had sprouted and how Pearl and I had watched the butterflies coming in and out of the windows while Absalom preached.

Bumpkin Emperor was not a natural when it came to preaching. He tried hard to imitate Papa. “I can’t find words to describe my happiness in serving the Lord,” he said. “That I read from the Bible translated by the founding father of this church, Mr. Absalom Sydenstricker, is a great honor.”

The new regime sought to open the doors to the outside world.

Overnight, Chin-kiang became the focus of the media because of its connection to Pearl Buck.

In 1981, the government granted funds to restore the Pearl Buck Residence in Chin-kiang, although Pearl’s family had lived in it for only a short time. The original bungalow, at the lower end of the town, where Pearl had grown up, was long gone. During the seventies, concrete Russian-style buildings had filled the landscape where it once stood. Though many opposed her, Rouge fought to honor Absalom and Carie as the original founders of the Chin-kiang middle school and the Chin-kiang hospital.

My life changed dramatically. I was protected by the government as “living history.” I was respected and preserved as a “national treasure” and was given many privileges as if I were a baby panda. I moved to a senior home reserved for high-ranking party officials. Doctors were available for me around the clock. To further please me, the government ordered Pearl Buck’s books directly from America. I was given a pair of new glasses plus a magnifier to help me with reading. I sobbed through
The Good Earth, The Exile
, and
Fighting Angel
. I felt Pearl’s affection for China on every page. I imagined her frustration and loneliness when she cried, “My Chinese roots must die!” She had more money than she could spend, but she couldn’t buy one ounce of Madame Mao’s mercy.

“Mother,” Rouge said, “my position in the party allows me to see that you get one last wish before your life ends. Name it, and I will see that it is done.”

I already knew the answer. “I would like to visit Pearl Buck’s grave in America.”

Rouge smiled. “I thought you would say that.”

Rouge had inherited her grandfather’s sense of practicality. Although she was not moved by power, she was aware of what power could do. Rouge outlined a proposal regarding my wish to visit America. She made it sound like my visit would benefit the Communist Party.

I worried about rejection when I applied for the passport. Like everyone in China, I understood that when the government spoke about an open-door policy, it didn’t mean that common people were allowed to travel abroad freely, especially to America. The shadow of persecution for having any contact with foreigners still weighed heavily on my mind.

However, Rouge was confident. She wrote letters to important people and made personal visits to the governor’s office, the police bureau, and the passport agency. She didn’t hesitate to play the role of the Communist Party boss that she was.

“Willow Yee’s trip to America will build a bridge between China and America,” Rouge insisted. “Chin-kiang strives to be a model town when carrying out Deng Xiaoping’s new foreign policy. Willow Yee is a loyal citizen whose only motive is to serve her country. As the party leader, I suggest that we make use of her before she expires.”

I went to Carie’s grave and collected a bag of dirt before my departure for America. I packed the bag next to my medicines in my suitcase. Although I suffered only age-related stiffness, the doctors were worried. They didn’t trust that I was fit to travel long distances.

I knew I would make the trip easily. I had been living my life to see Pearl one last time. Rouge was concerned that the American consulate wouldn’t grant me a visa due to my age. She was right. The consul requested proof of health insurance. We didn’t understand what “insurance” meant and had never heard of it. The consul suggested that we purchase a temporary policy for traveling in America. When Rouge received the estimated cost, she was stunned. “The cost of a three-month insurance policy is more than a Chinese person earns in ten years!”

Like Papa, Rouge felt no guilt about taking risks. She redoubled her efforts and pulled strings. She located Dick’s former prisonmate, General Chu, who not only was the new head of the national congress but also knew the American consul general himself. My visa was instantly granted. While Rouge confirmed the last details of my trip, I walked the hills, with the help of my grandchildren, where Pearl and I had once played. My legs were shaky, but I was happy.

I didn’t have to imagine Pearl’s American home, because Rouge showed me the photos sent by the Sino-American Friendship Association. It was beautiful. The place was a complex of houses against green rolling hills and blue sky. I couldn’t wait to see the interior. I imagined the rooms filled with tasteful furniture and decorated with Western art. Pearl would have a library, for she had always been a lover of books. I also imagined that she would have a garden. She had inherited Carie’s passion for nature. The garden would be filled with plants whose names I wouldn’t know, but it would be beautiful.

Where would she lie? I wondered. Growing up in Chin-kiang, she was familiar with the concept of feng shui. But would she apply the concept to her own resting place? After all, she had lived in America as long as she had in China. I wondered what her grave would look like. What would she surround herself with? Would she have a tombstone? Would there be carvings on the stone?

I intended to conduct a little ceremony after I arrived. I would light incense handmade by her friends in Chin-kiang. I would then spread the soil collected from her mother’s grave on her grave. I wanted to see the spirits of Carie and Pearl reunited. It would make me happy if I could accomplish only that.

C
HAPTER
35

In Washington, D.C., the Chinese consul, a handsome young man dressed in a Western suit, was upset with me. He had a television crew waiting to document my journey, but I insisted on going alone.

It took a few days for the consul to accept my terms. He bought me a train ticket to Philadelphia. He told me that he had also made a reservation for me at a local inn. I was excited and nervous. I could barely sit still after I got on the train. The landscape passing my window fascinated me. Springtime in America seemed to carry a more masculine yang element than southern China’s feminine yin. America’s mountains and trees were in contrast to Chin-kiang’s rolling bamboo-covered hills and swaying willows. If I were to describe the landscape using a Chinese brush, I would paint America with big strokes and splashes of ink, and I would paint China with hair-thin lines in elaborate detail.

I kept thinking of the time Pearl told me about her first trip to America. She was shocked that not everyone had black hair. She was fascinated at the different-colored people. She had never considered that she was not Chinese until that moment.

I wondered what it had been like for her to return to America and to be with her own people. Except for her face and the color of her hair, she was a complete foreigner. Beneath her skin, she was Chinese. I wondered how she had changed from the Pearl I had known and what she had looked like after she had grown old.

The old lady sitting opposite me had a petite figure. She was fair-skinned with blonde hair. Had Pearl looked like her when she was older? What did my friend have to change about her Chinese self to fit in to American society? It was possible for her to change her tone of voice, but what about her tastes and views that she had formed in China as a child, a teen, and an adult? Pearl once said that she felt enriched, like she owned more than one world. I liked that idea and envied her.

The moment I checked in to the inn, I received a phone call from the Chinese consul. He wanted to make sure that everything was going well. He suggested that I rest and visit the Pearl Buck House the next morning. I thanked him and said that I couldn’t wait. He then suggested that I leave my luggage at the inn. Over the phone, the consul admitted that he was a fan of Pearl Buck, and that he believed that Pearl had honored the Chinese people. He felt terrible about Madame Mao using her influence to have Pearl’s request for a Chinese visa rejected. “Madame Mao was a mad dog,” he concluded.

The consul told me that he had learned from American books and newspapers that Pearl had been wearing a brightly colored, embroidered Chinese robe prior to her death.

“It was said that for weeks Pearl sat in a large chair facing east staring out her window,” he said. “I wonder if what she was looking at is still there. I am curious about the final image she was seeing.”

What had she been thinking? I wanted to know too. Would it be thoughts of her childhood? Would I be in them? To survive, I had been escaping into my past for decades. I often recalled the popcorn man, the way Pearl pushed and pulled the bellows while I rotated the cannon. It was easy to close my eyes and see a vivid image of the popcorn man putting his dirt-colored cotton bag over the cannon while Pearl and I covered our ears. The big bang was always real and loud to my ears. I could even imagine the smell of the delicious popped corn and see Pearl’s smile as we stuffed handfuls into our mouths.

*          *          *

It was late afternoon when I first stepped inside the Pearl Buck House. I stopped just inside the door and examined the space. The room was exactly as I had imagined it. Friendly Caucasian women greeted me. They seemed to be accustomed to receiving non-English-speaking visitors. They suggested that I join the last house tour of the day. I was led to what was called the “Chinese view.”

I held my breath, afraid that it would vanish.

I could no longer hear what the guide was saying. It sounded faraway. I was in shock. The view on the other side of the glass looked like Chin-kiang. I felt like I had stepped into one of my dreams.

There was a gemlike pond cradled by rolling hills. White clouds drifted across the blue sky. Oriental maple trees stood by the pond like giant brown mushrooms. Mandarin ducks waddled about. Baby ducks followed their mothers and played in the water.

Like Carie, who had created an American garden in the middle of Chin-kiang, Pearl had created a Chinese garden around her American home. I remembered Carie’s struggle in growing American roses and dogwood. She helped the plants adapt to the southern Chinese climate and had to fight fungus and diseases. Carie’s roses would produce buds but no flowers. She used soap water and vinegar to kill the bugs and she composted her own soil with wood chips. She held a garden show when her roses finally bloomed.

To what lengths did Pearl go to surround herself with the memories of China? Traces of her effort were everywhere. The rocks laid and plants arranged were according to classic Chinese paintings. I imagined Pearl explaining Chinese aesthetics to her gardeners. I smiled thinking that she might have ended up confusing them.

The tour moved to Pearl’s greenhouse, which was filled with camellia trees. Although it was a large greenhouse, the camellias were crowded. It looked more like a garden nursery. The tour guide said that Pearl Buck was determined to see camellias blossom in the middle of Pennsylvania’s winter. She insisted that it could be done because she had seen camellia trees blossom in the winters in China.

Indeed, camellias thrived during the winter season in southern China. Their blooming branches could be seen on country hills and city streets. Chinese families loved camellias in their living rooms as ornaments. Camellias were among the most popular subjects for Chinese artists.

“The gardener suggested replacing the dying camellias with American winter plants, but Pearl refused,” the tour guide continued. “Pearl insisted on her Chinese camellias. They inspired her to write.”

I learned that Pearl had tried to grow Chinese tea trees, lotus, and water lilies, but they had all failed to survive. Who would understand that this was Pearl’s way of going back to her home in China?

Pearl’s surviving camellias were mature trees now. There were eighteen of them in the greenhouse. They were cramped. They were only two feet apart when it should have been ten. The camellias had run out of space to grow. The view amused me, because I could tell that my friend had been truly desperate. Like a Chinese, she was so in love with camellias that she acquired every variety and color and filled the greenhouse with them. Judging by the size of their trunks, the trees were more than twenty years old. I imagined my friend watering them in the morning. I could see her running around trying to clear weeds, loosen the soil, and spread fertilizers. She loved to use her hands. Her fingernails would look like Chinese peasants’, filled with earth.

The tour showed the visitors that Pearl Buck constantly remodeled her house. In order to create a Chinese-style kitchen, she tore down walls and rearranged studs and beams. She had a large wooden table made, with long benches on each side.

“The kitchen used to be four bedrooms,” the guide said, pointing to where the walls used to be. “Pearl changed things around because she wanted a spacious kitchen.” When she was a child, the kitchen was Pearl’s playground. It was where she spent time listening to stories told by Wang Ah-ma and other servants. It was also where she played hide-and-seek with me.

I wondered how Pearl felt when she received the set of Chinese nest boxes—a gift from President Nixon after he returned from China. Pearl must have been pleased and heartbroken at the same time. Did the gift give her hope? Did she still believe that she would one day return to the land of her dreams? Or did the gift make her think that there would never be another opportunity?

My eyes caught the shelf where Pearl’s books lay. Among them was the Dickens novel Pearl had held under her arm when we first met. I would have pulled the book out and kissed its cover if there hadn’t been a do not touch sign.

In the bedroom I saw Carie’s sewing box laid on the table. I was so impacted by the sight of it that my entire being was thrown back in time.

“The soil is prepared and you don’t plant!” I could hear Absalom yelling at Carie. He wanted her to help convert people when they came to thank her for healing their children with Western medicine. Absalom couldn’t get anyone to listen to him because he was seen as a crazy man. He blamed Carie and Pearl for not making their best efforts. “Christians are not Christ!” he told them constantly. Sewing was Carie’s way to escape Absalom. She sewed quietly while Absalom exploded.

Although Pearl defended her father in public, she told me that Absalom deserved his defeats. Pearl couldn’t bear her mother’s sadness, especially when she saw Carie’s tears soaking the cloth she was sewing. “Absalom’s flaw is too big for him to overcome,” she said. “Mother and I are afraid of helping him.”