My Half of the Sky was a Forbes Book Club Pick and a Booksense Pick of the Month. Listen to what people think:
"Your heart will tear apart right along with Li Hui's as she struggles to 'hold up her half of the sky' . . . This is a powerful coming of age story." --Keri Holmes, The Kaleidoscope
"You'll be rooting all the way for Li Hui as she struggles, ahead of the curve, to be her own woman in an emerging, modern China. Jana McBurney-Lin's MY HALF OF THE SKY is a beautiful, witty, touching debut novel." --Thomas Sawyer, Head Writer, "Murder She Wrote"
“It is a rare women's novel that sensitively describes the life of a young educated woman in modern-day China in its full complexity, without resorting to unnecessary sentimentalism. The author's deep knowledge of the realities of life in China and Singapore makes the reading extra rewarding.”--Friends of the Museum Newsletter, Singapore, June-July 2008
MY HALF OF THE SKY
(Smashwords Edition)
Copyright 2006, 2008 Jana McBurney-Lin
This novel is a work of fiction. The folk stories retold here are traditional and the places are real, but the events and characters described are products of the imagination.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
Chapter One
The Next Set of Tiles
Some fathers always smile and want to hear about your life. Not mine. He had his reasons—which went deeper than me ripping away his manhood or severing his connection to the earth. Today, though, as I stood in line for the telephone, I imagined a smile on his face. I envisioned him calling out to Mother. I thought about him buying a bottle of maotai as a celebration, as if he’d just won an important mahjong game.
Three people waited ahead of me to use the public phone at the post office. A woman with short orange hair and a vermilion jacket tap-tapped her high heels on the cement floor. A businessman in a tailored suit lifted his jacket and checked his pager. The man on the phone, a young man with long hair that fell below his ears, was missing his forearm. He used his stump like a hand, scratching at his dirty yellow t-shirt. Had the man been in an accident? Been born that way? Was he a burden on his family?
My birth was a handicap for our family. Sure, our late leader Mao Ze Dong had said: “Women hold up half the sky.” But that just wasn’t so. A girl leaves the house to marry into another family. She doesn’t pass her family name to her children. She doesn’t care for her parents forever—giving them money when they can no longer work, leading their casket to the other side of the River of Sleep, visiting their gravesites twice a year with spirit money, good foods and love. A man does all these things. Even an armless man who talked too long on the phone. I looked away.
Summer’s lingering light filtered in the long, dusty windows, making it seem as if we had more time than we did. No matter the quality of light, the post office closed in ten minutes. And I had to call Father.
In the corner, a clerk wearing black plastic sleeves over her jacket counted out wrinkled yuan notes and put rubber bands around each pile, readying her cash drawer for closing. At the next counter, another clerk hurried an old woman with a curved back through the process of filling out the eight forms necessary to send a package. A guard with a green army jacket and cloth cap stood at the door, letting customers out and arguing with any who wanted to enter. Our society, our customs, have a history of almost five thousand years. Longer than Mao’s declaration of equality. If a male isn’t born into the house, life is no longer eternal. Once, after too many cups of rice wine, Father had lifted his bleary red eyes to me and said, “My contact with the earth will soon die.”
At least today Father would be proud. Graduation from Hua Xia University neared. Counselor Zhang had just assigned my teaching position. I had a proper job. I only wanted Father’s favor.
Hammering noises from across the street filled the small postal building. A tall weathered sign said that the building in progress was an American-style coffee shop. Perhaps to cater to foreigners who came to study at the University. I had never tasted the foreign drink. In fact, I didn’t know many coffee drinkers. The sign also read that construction should have finished in December of 1993—six months ago. Everyone was running late.
The man with the missing arm dropped the phone in disgust. The businessman stepped up and grabbed the receiver. When Orange-Haired Aunty moved forward, the scent of her expensive perfume stayed behind. I glanced at my watch. Four minutes till closing.
Was her orange hair a new fashion? How much money did it cost to color hair? I had already received several red packets containing auspicious denominations of money from relatives, congratulating me on my graduation and wishing me good luck in the future. I smoothed my hand over my long dark locks, imagining how rich I’d feel with that color in my hair, as if a hundred yuan notes dripped across my shoulders.
Orange hair? What was I thinking? I needed to speak to Father. Perhaps I should run down the block to the phone kiosk. They charged more than the post office, more than I could afford. But this was important.
Father had never been totally in favor of me pursuing my studies. I had pleaded with him every moment he was sober and not contemplating his next game. “A waste of precious money,” he’d say. Or, “All that time taken from your youth—and for what? You can find a job here.” What would he say now that I was an elementary school teacher? An elementary school teacher with a job. Father would be pleased to hear I hadn’t wasted my four years in Xiamen. I would use some of my congratulations money to make this happy phone call. Hearing the approval in his voice would be worth every fen. I turned to go find a phone kiosk. A construction worker stood at the door arguing with the guard. The worker was dust-covered, a bamboo helmet hanging from his arm. He held a packet of food and gestured toward the phone with his plastic spoon. Grains of rice flew through the air. No wonder the American-style coffee shop took so long. All the workers took off early to get snacks and talk on the phone. The guard let the lazy worker in. I jumped back to my place in line. Perhaps my watch was fast.
The worker rushed up and pushed me from behind, nudging me with his bamboo helmet, as if shoving me could make the businessman get off the phone sooner. The businessman talked on. Pacing back and forth, as if he were in his own private office.
A successful businessman like him. That’s what every family wanted. I was lucky though. Many mothers gave up their girls for adoption. I may have put an end to Father’s everlasting life, may have been the reason people called him “eunuch,” but Mother had held tight to me.
The successful man finished his call and hung up. Orange-Haired Aunty click-clicked forward and picked up the receiver. The worker behind nudged me again until my nose touched the top of Aunty’s head. Stiff colored strands of hair tickled. Expensive perfume became my air. I inhaled deeply. Better to have successful Orange-Haired Aunty go before me than Impatient Construction Worker. Mother would think it a good omen.
“The post office is closing,” Construction Worker said and pushed again. He put on the bamboo helmet. Such a flimsy helmet meant to protect his skull and brain. He tapped his dust-covered fingers on the chest of his ripped t-shirt. “I need to use the phone.”
Orange-Haired Aunty turned to him as if to say, “What a coincidence.” She even had double folds on her eyelids. Double folds, like Westerners had, were a sign of beauty. Single folds, like mine, a sign of intelligence. As a child, I had wanted double folds, even though Waipo, Mother’s mother, said I was beautiful despite my single folds. Mei Ling, my best friend in university, and I often talked about getting an operation to have our folds fixed. The procedure cost big money. Orange hair, red finger nails, even double folds on her eyes. Yes, this woman could hold up half the sky. Certainly she was a good omen.
“Today’s my son’s birthday,” Construction Worker said through a mouthful of rice. “I need to call home.”
How could he reveal his personal desires? Like a child—a spoiled child—to me, a stranger?
“He’s five today,” the man whispered, his brown eyes probably envisioning the boy eating a hard-boiled egg as a celebration, the yellow insides dribbling down the boy’s chin. “I haven’t spoken to him since the Lunar New Year.”
Why did I have to hear this? So he was a migrant worker, far from his province. Did I have to allow him to make his call first? I had news, too. I had a chance to make Father smile, to be proud. Today, I could hold up half the sky, just like Orange-Haired Aunty.
When Orange-Haired Aunty click-clicked away from the desk, Construction Worker pushed in front of me and reached out for the phone. But I grabbed the receiver first. The man swore in a dialect I didn’t understand. Too bad for him.
The warm black receiver smelled of perfume. Well, I wouldn’t linger. The homesick father might get to make his call too. I let out a deep breath, waiting for the operator to connect me to Zi Mei.
Zi Mei owned the small store on the corner next to our house. She and her dull-witted son sold rice and cigarettes, soy powder and candies. She also owned one of three phones in the village. She let us use her phone. For a small fee, of course.
The phone rang and rang, the sound hollow and far away. Was Zi Mei selling a pack of Long March cigarettes or a bag of White Rabbit candies? Chatting?
“Post office is closing,” the guard called, taking off his cap and rapping the material against the palm of his hand for emphasis.
Construction Worker swore again. He tossed his empty rice packet on the ground at my feet and stomped out the door. He probably didn’t have extra money to use the phone kiosk. Well, neither did I really.
Finally Zi Mei picked up. She sounded out of breath. Her son Don Don did his best to help with the shop. But he had his bad days when he would get lost in the way the afternoon light filtered through the branches of the peach trees. Or the way a spider dangled from the roof of the shop. Perhaps he wasn’t even there today. I hoped such was the case.
“It’s me,” I said. “Li Hui.”
“You got a teaching assignment,” she said.
Perhaps the confidence in my voice gave it away. Then again, Zi Mei had a way of finding things out. She was always the first in the village to know anything. I imagined her short hair pasted to the sides of her head. Her eyes sparkling.
“I need to talk to Father,” I said.
“Don Don,” she called out. “Go get Li Hui’s father.”
I cringed, sitting on the edge of the chair next to the phone. My legs bounced up and down. I hoped Don Don would remember his task today.
“Yes, I know Li Hui is at college,” Zi Mei shouted out so loud, I had to pull the receiver away from my head. “Yes, she’s a nice girl. No, you don’t need to zip your jacket first.”
Oh, Gods. At this rate, the post office would close before Don Don returned with Father. Outside the post office I spotted impatient Construction Worker shuffling along the sidewalk towards his work site. He had his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his head down. Perhaps I should have let him call his son. Then again, maybe his local phone system was no more efficient than ours.
“So, tell me about the job,” Zi Mei said. I sighed. I felt as though I’d held my breath four years to say the words. I explained the details to Zi Mei, feeling important at having an educated job. I could tell she was making mental calculations. Was the job worth the place they were sending me? Her lack of commentary said she wasn’t as excited as I. But perhaps she didn’t know. Anyway, all I cared was that Father was pleased. Not our local gossip. Even if she was a successful businesswoman.
“Li Hui’s got a job,” Zi Mei called out. Ah, wonderful. Don Don hadn’t gotten lost in his own world. Father must be close. I imagined Father walking unsteadily, tossing his cigarette into the street, and grabbing the phone. By this hour, he’d surely started on his rice wine.
Now I’d give him reason to drink another cup.
“What’s the news?” He breathed heavily into the phone.
Drilling started up across the street, so loud my insides vibrated. Had disappointed Construction Worker taken up a drill to show his anger? How would Father ever hear me?
“I’ll earn three hundred yuan per month teaching first grade,” I shouted, adding Counselor Zhang’s words. “Just what the college trained me to do.”
I held the receiver tight to my right ear and plugged the other ear with my fingers to block out the sound of the drill. I wanted to hear Father‘s words of happiness.
“Where?” Father shouted back, his tone full of hope. “Beijing?”
“Not Beijing,” I said, those two small words using up all the breath in my lungs. Beijing and Shanghai had the most prestigious reputations. These cities had good economies, good food, good schools, good everything. To live in such a place would bring honor on our family for generations to come.
“Well, where then?” he shouted, as if we’d been tricked. As if just because I was one of two people in our village to go to university, just because I was in the top ten percent of my class, I could choose the best job.
“Counselor Zhang said I’ll be showing Mother China how grateful I am,” I said, the receiver growing heavy in my hands. My words sounded as meaningful as flowers on a manure paddy. The drilling across the road ceased. Yet my insides still vibrated. How could I have thought Father would be pleased?
“Where?” Father cleared his throat and spat.
“Xin Jiang,” Zi Mei sang out in the background before I had a chance.
“What?” Father’s disbelief exploded like a firecracker in my ear. No smile radiated across the telephone line. No happiness embraced my accomplishment. My omens dissolved in an orange haze of dyed hair and the memory of Construction Worker’s nudges.
“But Counselor Zhang said it’s my duty as a good citizen to go where I’m needed,” I explained, attempting to reason with him.
“No,” he whispered into the phone.
“But, Father . . .” If I didn’t accept this job, I’d have nothing. Four years and nothing to show for it. Just as he had predicted. “Father, if I don’t—“
“No,” he repeated. “This is obvious discrimination. It’s just because you’re from a small village that you’re getting such a bad assignment.”
“Oh, Father.”
The remnants of Orange-Haired Aunty’s perfume clogged my throat. Weights hammered against the back of my eyes. I clenched the receiver with both hands.
Father knew the whole economy had slid like rocks from the mountain, especially after those foolish students in Tiananmen Square had irritated the government—and the world—with their silly Statue of Freedom. Why didn’t he see that now wasn’t the time to be acting like a shopper choosing fruit at the marketplace?
“Seriously, Li Hui,” he said. “You’d be better off begging on the streets.”
“Post office closing,” the guard called again. He pointed his cap at me, indicating that I should end my call.
“Talk to Administrator Zhang,” Father said, hanging up before I had a chance to explain further.
I listened to the hum of our severed connection. Certainly Father was right. After struggling for four years, the last thing we wanted was to live in Xin Jiang. Once in that poor province, we’d be stuck there forever. We couldn’t just travel around the country and look for a job anywhere we pleased. To live in a different province—that was as difficult as getting a visa to the outside world. I replaced the grimy receiver. Orange-Haired Aunty’s perfume now smelled like a gas leak. I needed air.
A cuckoo clock from Counselor Zhang’s government-sanctioned trip to Holland chimed eight times. My long legs hit up against his cold metal desk, a desk that took up over half his giant office. His short hair dark hair was parted straight down the side, not a hair out of place. His bushy eyebrows made a long furrowed line across his forehead. He’d managed to bury every inch of the grand surface with papers and books. He looked through one of those books now. My best friend Mei Ling had warned me against coming.
“You’re going against the system,” she’d said slapping her palm on the bamboo bed mat for emphasis. “You’ll either be kicked out of Counselor Zhang’s office or punished. Or both.”
I held on tight to the bag containing a bottle of Dutch liquor. I’d used up half my congratulations money to buy the small bottle. This was the right thing. I felt it.
I often felt things. Nerves in my stomach when a shopkeeper planned to cheat me. A squeezing of my heart, as if it were boiled cabbage, each time Mother didn’t get to adopt the new baby boy in the village. Especially after all the effort she went to with her knitting, her gifts, her kind words. Sometimes I felt like a light bulb dangling from the ceiling, the electricity moving through my veins. This when Father argued with his friends over a card game or cricket fight. At this moment, I felt a burning inside. As if I were buried in Hainan Island’s white sand beach, the calendar picture that hung on Counselor Zhang’s wall.
Counselor Zhang struck a match on the side of his chair and lit his cigarette. He turned another page in his journal. His eyes seemed focused far away. He must be mulling over my refusal of the posting in Xin Jiang. Finally, he looked up.
“I thought you understood,” he said, blowing a plume of smoke across the desk. “You’re needed in Xin Jiang.”
“My parents.” I cleared my throat. “My parents, they feel uncomfortable with me taking a job so far away.”
“They are welcome to move with you,” Counselor Zhang said, tapping the end of his cigarette against a white ceramic ashtray in the shape of a windmill. “The permit allows for that.”
“But the distance—it’s so far.”
“I see.” Counselor Zhang sat back in his chair, the leather squeaking. “You want to have a say.”
“No. No say.” I wasn’t like those rebellious students in Tiananmen. “It’s just . . . you understand, I’m the only child.”
Counselor Zhang stared out the window overlooking the cafeteria where students milled about talking and laughing and finishing a last mouthful of breakfast. Here was the man responsible for securing my “rice bowl.” Mei Ling and I always laughed that his office was right across from the rice. Now I couldn’t even muster a smile. Father’s directive had drained me of even trying to hold up a part of the sky. After all, who wasn’t an only child these days?
“I don’t see how we can help you.” He took several puffs from his cigarette. The end glowed like the eye of a devil. “If you’re going to be so choosy about where you take an assignment.”
If only our family had enough face in the community that I could borrow lots of money. Then I wouldn’t be dependent on administrative decisions. I could sneak overseas and have success, just like Mei Ling planned.
“Forgive me for causing trouble,” I said, handing him the liquor I’d spent hours locating. The paper bag crinkled, a desperate sound. “This is a small present for your efforts.”
“Oh,” he said, his eyes on the bag. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I insisted.
Back and forth we went three times, as was our custom. Finally he pulled the bottle from the bag. Mei Ling would have been surprised at his smile.
“Ah,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Junge Graan Jenever, the spirit of the nation. This is wonderful liquor. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing at all,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”
Counselor Zhang puffed more on his cigarette. He stared at the bottle nodding his head up and down. Was he recalling a small bar in Holland or thinking of Xin Jiang?
“Miss Huang, do you feel like you’re embodying the spirit of the nation?”
People never questioned their assignments. They went where they were told and were happy to do so. But how many of them had a father like mine?
“Like our nation.” I cleared my throat again. “I too am planning for the future. Five, ten, twenty years from now. I just want to make sure I can properly care for my aging parents. As I said, I’m the only child.” I’d spent my life waiting for this moment. Studying as I washed cabbage in
icy well water for the pigs. Studying as I helped Mother stack potatoes for the winter. Studying. Studying. Studying. I’d spent four years waiting for Counselor Zhang to give me a job assignment. Now I was tossing that out the window like a used tissue.
Counselor Zhang pulled his ledger from beneath a stack of papers. He flipped through pages filled with dates and times. Surely he was thinking of his next appointment. Surely he had finished with me.
Counselor Zhang rubbed a thick hand over his long eyebrows. He fixed a stray hair that had crossed the otherwise perfect part in his head. He mumbled something.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice just above a whisper. I stared at the scorching sun on Hainan Island, certain that I—not the sand—was on fire.
“There’s an opening in Yunnan.” He looked over at me with serious eyes. “Will you take it or not?”
Electricity started at my toes and traveled up to my heart. Yunnan had a better economy than Xin Jiang. Was closer. While Counselor Zhang offered less salary—two hundred yuan per month—the trade-off wasn’t bad. The stamp of residency was what we wanted. A permit to live in Yunnan. A new job. This would make Father happy. This must make Father happy.
I sat in the chair in the old post office building, drumming my fingers against the desk in concert with the hammering across the street. I waited for the operator to connect me. A long time had passed since Father had won more than he’d lost the previous night. In fact, fifteen years. Fifteen years since he’d won enough money over his annual Chinese New Year marathon mahjong tournament that we could build our own house. People still talked about that win. Especially Father.
Zi Mei didn’t answer the phone. Father did. Had he been expecting me to call?
“We won,” I said, the words tumbling out. “I start in two weeks. We’ll be assigned a house near the school. The pay will certainly get better as the years go by. Besides, this is Yunnan.”
I paused to catch my breath. Father had gambled big this time. Well, he’d convinced me to gamble big. And he had won. We had won. I’d gone to Counselor Zhang and done an unheard of thing, rejecting his employment assignment. Yet he’d offered me another position. A better position. I’d done it. I could already hear Father telling his gambling buddies of this win. He’d be telling this success story for years to come.
“Yunnan, ah?” Father said. He chuckled. He was happy. At last.
I sat back in the old chair. Across the street I spotted Construction Worker, the man who hadn’t been able to wish his son a happy birthday. He leaned over on his ladder, hammering at two beams above him. His boss shouted from beneath, tapping the ladder with a bamboo cane. Construction Worker reached higher, eager to satisfy. Migrant workers, living illegally in the city, didn’t have much choice as to jobs. They took what they could and were treated no better than cattle. Lucky for us, I had been offered an official position. Actually, not one but two. A second when the first one should have been all I could expect. This was good. This was very good.
“Not enough,” Father said.
Certainly he was talking to Zi Mei or Don Don, saying he needed more cigarettes than were being pulled from behind the glass case. Yes, he was celebrating the change in the winds of fortune already. My heart felt full. I twirled the telephone cord with my fingers. Outside, the worker held the beams with one hand and hammered with the other. The reach looked painful, the strain unbearable.
“Did you hear me?” Father asked.
“Were you talking to me?” I dropped the cord.
“Who else?” Father said. “See if Counselor Zhang doesn’t discover a bigger city that needs you.”
How could he say this? Why couldn’t he see how the gamble had paid off? But then he’d often used one win as a reason to keep playing. “You never know what’s going to happen with the next set of tiles,” he’d say.
“Oh, Father.”
“This is an important moment.” He exhaled loudly into the receiver. “You can’t accept second best after all the work you’ve put into this.”
A loud thud reverberated throughout the room. Everyone in the post office moved towards the windows, their voices tense, excited. Outside a cloud of dust turned the air milky white. What had happened? I stood to see outside.
“Oh, my mother!” I whispered spotting a form dangling in the cloud.
Construction Worker had reached ever higher. Too high. His bamboo ladder tipped, then shattered right next to the boss. Construction Worker hung from a rafter. The boss stood up and brushed off dust from his shoulders. He glared up at Construction Worker. He would make Construction Worker feel the burning sting of the cane tonight.
“You just see,” Father said, “if Counselor Zhang has an even better opening available. He sounds like a reasonable man. If you ask, you shall receive.”
Outside workers and passersby gathered around the dangling man, shouting advice. Inside I wondered how much further I could push Counselor Zhang. So much noise filled my head, it hurt. I shut out the noise. I listened. This was Father, after all. He believed we’d hear funny northern accents and feel the brisk wind of success within a few weeks. All without borrowing money, without leaving the country. He believed we sat in front of the winning house of mahjong tiles. Perhaps he was right. It would be worth every fen of my congratulations money, if another present—perhaps smoked fish from Counselor Zhang’s beloved Holland—bought me a ticket to Beijing.
“You can do it,” Father said. “Remember. This is our future.”
Outside a crack sounded, like that of a branch breaking. Another thud shook the earth. Shouting filled the air. The rafters across the street had given way under Construction Worker’s weight. He had fallen, the heavy beams landing on his head.
Counselor Zhang sat across from me. He didn’t pretend to look through his book. He didn’t flip through his daily appointment ledger. He didn’t even answer his ringing phone.
“Please understand,” I began again. “Yunnan is a fine place, I’m sure. It’s much closer. It’s just that Mother and Father are old and would appreciate the conveniences of a bigger city.”
“Like Shanghai?” he asked, looking past the gift I had brought, a kilo of smoked salmon from Holland. ―Or Beijing?”
I didn’t answer. His voice mocked me. I felt him staring at me through his bushy eyebrows. Was he angry? Incredulous?
“Any help you could give,” I said, my eyes on the smoked salmon. The gift stood awkwardly on the table, still in the bag. My knees trembled. My palms sweat. “I appreciate—we appreciate—any help you can give.”
“I’ve done all I can,” he said, pushing his chair back. The metal casters grated. He stood up, signaling an end to our meeting. “The university can offer you nothing more.”
Counselor Zhang’s voice sounded like the crack of the rafters above Construction Worker’s head. I saw again Construction Worker outside the post office buried under those heavy beams that had fallen. Those bamboo helmets the construction workers wore didn’t protect them, except from the sun. That man wouldn’t ever get to wish his son a happy birthday.
As Father had directed, I’d approached Counselor Zhang again. I had sought an even better position. No, gambled for a higher spot. Like Construction Worker reaching too high, I had also fallen off my ladder. Father’s prediction from way back had come true. My education was now worthless. And most certainly I couldn’t prove that the new world order worked, that women held up half the sky.
Chapter Two
The Lost Horse
Whenever something didn’t happen the way I wanted or I thought my luck was poor, Mother’s mother—Waipo—would rub the wrinkles on her hand, as if smoothing a shirt fresh from the laundry line, and say, “Remember the farmer and his horse?” Waipo often told me this story, a story that went back thousands of years to the Qin Dynasty.
A poor farmer lived on the outskirts of the village. Whereas his neighbors had large plots of land and several horses to plow their fields, he had only a small plot of land. He had but one horse.
Still, Poor Farmer was a happy man. He had healthy parents. His wife had bore him a strong son. And at least he had a horse with which to plow the fields.
One morning, when he went out to the pasture, he couldn’t find his horse. He looked in the barn. He looked up and down the road. He even walked into his rich neighbor’s field. But his horse was gone. “What poor luck,” Rich Neighbor clucked, glancing proudly over to where his own son hitched up one of their many horses.
“You never know,” Poor Farmer said, raising his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders.
A week later, while Poor Farmer and his son were out pulling their plow, they heard a familiar grunting. Their horse had returned. Not only that, the horse had brought home a lovely wild mare.
“What good luck,” Rich Neighbor called out. “You never know,” Poor Farmer replied, although he couldn’t help but smile.
The next day, Poor Farmer’s son took the wild mare out for a ride. He lost control of the untamed animal and fell off and broke his arm.
“What poor luck,” Rich Neighbor said, putting his arm around his own unbroken son.
“You never know,” Poor Farmer said, his brow furrowed.
Just then, Emperor Qin’s men rode into town. A war had begun. The Emperor needed all able-bodied men to fight. To die in service to the country. The Emperor’s men went from house to house picking recruits. Rich Neighbor’s son had to join the army despite his father’s lavish donations. Poor Farmer’s son with his broken arm got to stay home and live.
As Waipo always said, “Good fortune turns to disaster, disaster to good fortune. The cycle has no end, nor can the mystery of it be explained.”
I wasn’t sure how sweating in the middle of the park alongside beggars and migrant workers could be compared to losing a horse, but maybe. At least I was home with my parents. Able to watch over them. And just maybe I’d find a client, a job, some money today.
I wiped a drop of perspiration trickling down the side of my cheek and shifted my tutor sign to my other hand. Exhaust fumes made my eyes itch. The gray sky hovered like an extra blanket. The park would soon be filled with lunchtime traffic.
Counselor Zhang had promised I’d never have an official job as a teacher. Why had I pushed him so? Yunnan would have been a fine spot to work and live. And, so far, there hadn’t been any opportunities for me at home.
At least one out of every three of us in the village had no job. That’s what I had noticed these last couple weeks since I’d been home. Not the grain growing in the rice fields or the goats grazing by the side of the road. Not lychee or mangos ripening on the branches. Not the things I’d missed while studying in a big city, like the smell of the air after a rain. No, I had noticed the number of women—and even men—sitting around, talking, knitting, sleeping on carts in the afternoon sun. All of us unemployed.
As always, the park was crowded. I stood wedged between two other tutors, both of whom had asked for my help in writing their signs. Behind me a palm reader studied the hand of an old woman. He had taken up the spot that was normally the paper cutter’s. Was Madame Paper Cutter sick? Had she been arrested? Had she found a better place to sell her cuttings?
“You’re a tutor?” a woman asked.
I turned to see a short woman carrying a purse and plastic shopping bag. She wore a black cotton skirt that draped past her knees. A small child held onto the hem of that skirt as if the cloth were his special blanket.
“Yes,” I said, smiling at the boy. “I specialize in working with young children.”
“I thought you were going to be a real teacher,” the woman said, brushing the stray bangs off her forehead. “Isn’t that why you went off to college for all those years?”
“I’m sorry?” I looked at her closely. Did I know this middle-aged woman with simple clothes, dark bags under her eyes, a young son?
“Fifth cousin,” she said, putting out her hands to grasp mine. “Remember?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Of course.” I grabbed both her hands in mine. My, how she’d aged. Lines etched deeply at the corners of her eyes. “And you’re interested in a tutor for your beautiful young son?”
“No, no.” She chuckled. “He doesn’t need a tutor yet. He’s only three.”
“It’s never too early to start,” I said. “I studied early childhood education.”
“No, no.” She waved her hand back and forth, shooing away the idea. “I don’t need any of that. I didn’t sing to my baby while he was in my womb either. Although I saw a program on TV that the best mothers do that.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Studies show that the earlier the contact, the more alert the child.”
“What is this?” She pointed to my sign, to my existence in the park along with migrants and other tutors, most of whom had no real education. Her tired eyes shone as if she’d discovered that the white object everyone called a pearl was just another rock. “After all the effort that you went to. All that expense and time.”
“Well, these things happen,” I said.
Fifth Cousin wasn’t a bad sort. Everyone in the village agreed that the university experience had set me off course, had ruined my future. Fifth cousin wasn’t as crass as some. Still, I was glad Madame Paper Cutter wasn’t here to listen to this onslaught.
“Unbelievable,” she said, shaking her short locks back and forth, her lips in a thin line. “What will you do now?”
“I’m doing it,” I said, forcing cheer in my voice. Why hadn’t Father and I been satisfied with Yunnan? Why hadn’t Counselor Zhang managed to find just one more place for me?
From next to us, the grating of wooden wheels on the cement pavement filled my ears. I looked to the sound. A migrant worker selling water chestnuts approached with his pushcart. He would want to get by. I clutched my sign to my chest and stepped back, away from Fifth Cousin and her little boy. This was as good a chance as any to put an end to this unpleasant conversation.
“Nice to see you again,” I called to her, backing up so the migrant could push his way between us.
Fifth Cousin looked at me with dark eyes. She wanted to continue chewing on my failure. How could I be so rude? Then she took the hand of her son and turned. Soon she was a distant head bobbing in the daily crowd, disappearing into her world of errands and responsibilities. Leaving me in the hot sun and crowded park to hold up my sign again for all to see.
If I got just one little job long enough to restock the essentials in the house and to buy Father a bottle of rice wine, maybe people would stop discussing my sad situation. At the very least, Father would stop asking about the ―final conversation.”
“What time of the day did you visit Counselor Zhang to ask for a better assignment,” Father would ask. Or, “Did you bring a gift to compensate for all the trouble he had gone to?” Every day he had a different theory as to what I’d done wrong. Even when I mentioned that Mei Ling, who studied to be an herbal doctor and didn’t get a good job assignment either—even when I said that—Father wondered what the both of us had done wrong.
That was one of the differences between Mei Ling’s father and mine. Mei Ling’s father didn’t sit around long enough to analyze where she’d made the mistake. Instead he had borrowed money from all their relatives, so he could send her off with a Snakehead on a boat to Japan. She should be arriving in the Land of Rising Opportunities any day now. My eyes prickled like a thousand needles stabbed them. Some people left for five or ten years. Some people never returned.
Father once suggested that I best get on a boat somewhere. But this was just talk. The same as when he threatened to take the butcher knife and chop off our neighbor the zealot’s manhood. Or when he said he’d give Zi Mei an earful of his anger if she didn’t loan him money at a good rate until he won his next game. Father just imagined all of these things over and over again.
“You’re a tutor?” A middle-aged man stopped and lit a cigarette. His crisp white shirt was decorated with lunch. A grease spot on the chest, hot sauce on the belly. He certainly ate well.
“Yes,” I said, standing up straight. “I teach young children.”
His black leather shoes shone like new. He wore a Gucci belt. Real or imitation?
“How young?” the man asked, pointing his cigarette at me, the end of it stopping too close to my cotton shirt.
Did I know him? He didn’t have a child in tow. Would this be another commiseration session or did he really want a tutor? I ignored the burning stick in his hand.
“I studied early childhood education. Youngsters. Seven, eight.”
The man looked around the park, as though searching for another prospect. He smelled of cigarettes and aftershave. Such luxuries. He would have money to pay for a tutor, any one of us. All of us. He must have an older child.
“Nine, ten, eleven,” I added with a smile. “In fact, there’s never been a child of any age I couldn’t teach. I have my certificate here.” I reached in my shoulder bag and pulled out the round tube.
“Save it,” the man said waving away the tube. “Anyone can buy a graduation certificate.”
He spoke the truth. In fact, several of the tutors nearby surely had paid for such a document to go along with the signs I had made for them.
“I just graduated a couple weeks ago,” I said. “From Hua Xia University.”
“Alright. Alright.” The man took a puff on his cigarette and whistled across the street toward the greasy hamburger restaurant with the lucky golden M. A boy emerged from the crowd of shoppers and made his way towards us. Slowly. He listened to something through headphones as he bit into a hamburger.
“How much do you charge?” the man asked.
“Twenty yuan per day,” I said.
“Oh, please.” The man threw his cigarette on the ground and blew a plume of smoke in my face. “I’ll give you ten.”
“Maybe you could get one of those other graduates for ten,” I said, nodding to the others in the park. “But I’m a good teacher. I won’t tutor your son for less than nineteen yuan.”
“Fifteen,” he suggested.
“Eighteen,” I said.
“Hey, Baba,” the boy called in between bites of food. “Over here.”
The boy had stopped in front of one of the other tutors. The so-called tutor had long hair in a ponytail, a silver hoop earring in his ear. The boy handed his headphones to the man. Mr. Ponytail and Earring smiled and nodded his head back and forth to a rhythm.
“Is that a real tutor?” the father asked me.
I was sure that tutor hadn’t gone to any university. But, then, Mother always said it’s not wise to badmouth a stranger. You never knew what connections people had. How angry they would get.
“I don’t recognize him from my university,” I said.
“But then …”
“Eighteen, then,” the father said, tossing his cigarette on the ground next to my feet. “Eighteen yuan a day.”
“It’s a deal,” I said.
He shook my hand and gave me his business card with his phone number. He had his own phone. What an expense. Perhaps I could talk him into giving me a bonus.
“Now, about time-”
“Wait right here,” the father said and left to retrieve his son. “I’ll be right back.”
I put the name card in my purse. I rocked back and forth on my feet. I had a job. Finally. Something metal brushed against my bare ankle. I turned. Scissors.
“You’re here,” I said and nodded to Madame Paper Cutter.
Madame Paper Cutter was a migrant from Sichuan Province. An older woman with a few grey hairs poking out, she wore thick eyeglasses. Her rough and wrinkled fingers guided scissors across the paper like a magician creating peaches and pomegranates, dancing girls and healthy boys. Each day, she showed me how to make a new paper cutting. Each day I gave her a new list of characters to practice. She had never been to school. But she was eager to learn.
“Looks like I won’t be able to do much this afternoon,” I said.
She wanted me to help her write a letter to her daughter. She would teach me how to cut a crane. Still, I was excited to start working today, if this man’s son had time.
“Every year that man comes with his son,” she said, not looking up, but cutting a circle out of a piece of red paper.”
“Really?”
Madame Paper Cutter was good at seeing people. The park had been her life for so long—three years, she had told me—that she saw people and things most of us missed. Like when the woman who lived in a box next to the greasy hamburger shop had found a new box. Or when a policeman was coming through. Or, now, when she remembered a certain customer.
“That little Emperor is lazy,” Madame Paper Cutter said, pushing her large glasses up on her nose. “He’s not interested in doing anything but listening to that thing on his head.”
I looked over to where the son stood arguing with his father. The son obviously wanted to pick his own tutor. Is that why the man changed tutors each year?
“Laziness is an untapped mind, my teacher always said.” I could get the boy interested in studying, especially for eighteen yuan a day. I’d try telling him some of Waipo’s stories. I’d pick up a book on discipline.
“I’ve warned many a tutor,” she said.
Warned? Perhaps she’d just chosen the wrong word. She wasn’t used to speaking our dialect. I watched the way her scissors cut triangles and circles. A snip here. A snip there. The air around her smelled of chili and garlic. I was sorry we wouldn’t be helping each other today. But, at the same time, I wished the father and boy would hurry back to discuss our tutoring schedule.
“Last year’s tutor is over there.” Madame Paper Cutter nodded in the direction of a woman standing at the edge of the park.
The woman held a well-written sign with one hand. In the other, she clutched a paperback book up close to her left eye. Her right eye was half-covered with skin. As if she’d been burned. What had happened? Why hadn’t she worked out as a tutor for this boy?
“If the son does poorly.” Madame Paper Cutter tapped her scissors on her right cheek just below her eye. “That father is unforgiving.”
I looked at the tutor’s face again. Had the man really burned her? He had come close to me with his cigarette. But, would he put one in my face? No. Certainly not. The woman must have asked for such a punishment.
“Help me write a letter to my daughter,” Madame Paper Cutter said, watching me. “She’s going to enter summer school next week, as preparation for first grade. I haven’t seen her in three years.”
“Perhaps tomorrow. I could meet you here early in the morning, depending,” I said, putting my sign away in my purse. “Depending on the schedule.”
The man had taken his son’s headphones away and was shouting. I caught words, in between the honking of taxis and the pounding of machinery. But nothing significant. I would go over there.
“Wait.” Madame Paper Cutter grabbed onto my ankle. “She loves to be read to. She loves to study. If you could just spare a minute.”
“Tomorrow I will.” I knelt down and held her hand. “I promise.”
Then off I went to put an end to all the haggling. How ridiculous to even consider hiring uneducated Mr. Ponytail and Earring. Certainly he offered a lower price. But I’d remind that father that this wasn’t the place to be saving money.
“Oh, there you are,” I said to the father. “I was just on my way to another appointment. By the way, we didn’t decide on a schedule.”
Mr. Ponytail and Earring gave me a sour look. The father looked down at his son. The boy stared off into the park, his dark eyes small and unblinking.
“This tutor says he will allow my son to listen to music while he studies,” the father said. “Will you do that?”
So this wasn’t about price? How did one study while listening to music? How could the father even consider such a silly idea?.
“I think it depends on the study,” I said. “Certainly music can sometimes--”
“I like to listen all the time,” the boy said, his chest heaving against his tight striped shirt. Like his father, he ate healthy meals. Too many of them.
“Of course, you love your music,” I said. An untapped mind of an adolescent who may have been almost as tall as his father, but not quite. He obviously struggled to find his place, that’s all this was. “We can find time to listen to your--”
“See?” The boy cut my words off. He pointed at me with an small, accusing finger. “She won’t let me listen. I know she won’t.”
“She wants you to focus,” the father explained, his eyes pleading with the boy. “That’s all. This is about you getting into a good school. Why can’t you see that?”
“Is it?” the son asked, jutting his smooth young chin out. He nodded to Mr. Ponytail and Earring. Then he turned on his shiny heels and walked away. My father would have smacked me upside the head within seconds.
“Son, wait,” the father called not even glancing in my direction. “Don’t you walk away from me like that. Son? Son?”
The overindulgent man ran after his spoiled child. That was one of the problems with having only one son. Parents gave in too easily. But perhaps Mr. Overindulgent would return. I returned to my spot and pulled out my sign to wait. Madame Paper Cutter held up her finished art piece. The lucky red crane.
“That’s lovely,” I said. My voice was full of disappointment. I tried again. “Really lovely.”
“During ancient times, all girls knew how to do this,” she said, her voice soft, her cadence slow. “In fact, a girl who couldn’t make decent paper cuttings was not considered a worthy bride.”
Despite her voice my heart beat hard from frustration. A dull ache surrounded my skull. Would Mr. Overindulgent and his son return?
“Let me show you how.” She took out a fresh piece of red paper. She reached out and touched my arm.
Ah, dear Madame Paper Cutter. Who grew excited by the shapes a simple piece of paper could take. Who wouldn’t let me wallow in my anger.
“Fine,” I said and looked away from the street. I could no longer see Mr. Overindulgent chasing after his son. I threw my shoulder bag down on the ground and flopped next to her. “What’s the first step?”
“Patience,” she said, looking up at me through her large lenses, like a giant goldfish.
Patience. I wanted that. But I wanted a job more. Any job. I wanted my disaster to turn to good fortune.
Chapter Three
The Lucky Crane
I waited for Mr. Overindulgent and his son to return. Until a cool wind blew. And the sky grew dark. Then a large drop of rain splattered on my arm. Little chance of the man coming back now, so late in the afternoon, such unfavorable weather.
“I know a place to wait out the rain,” Madame Paper Cutter said, folding up the letter I’d written for her daughter, sticking it underneath the waistband of her pants. “If you want to wait.”
“Thanks, no,” I said.
I thought of New Neighbor, the zealot, and his stones. As Father always said, the man was missing a piano string or two. Would he and Father have started arguing already? I helped Madame Paper Cutter gather her cuttings into a plastic bag. I’d much rather stay with her. I’d much rather wait.
Why had New Neighbor chosen to build his house in front of ours, I thought for the hundredth time. He and his wife used to live further down the road. Nice and far away. Then their son had been killed. They claimed that bad spirits flowing from a grave near their old house had pushed the son’s truck over a bridge, dropping him like a boulder into the cold waters below. Other, less superstitious people had suggested the boy had fallen asleep at the wheel. Mother said it wasn’t right to pass judgment on what people believed or didn’t. Father said he wouldn’t if they would just keep to themselves. Which they never did. Especially when it rained.
“I should get home.” I handed the bag of cuttings to Madame Paper Cutter. “When it rains, it’s best if I’m at home.”
Madame Paper Cutter’s features relaxed into a smile. She looked in the bag, took out one of her lucky paper cranes, and handed it to me. Perhaps she worried that Mr. Overindulgent and the little Emperor would come back, that I would work for them.
“Tomorrow,” she said and squeezed my hand.
On the bus home, I stood in the aisle and gripped my umbrella. Rain poured down against the windows in sheets of white. Why had I waited so long for Mr. Overindulgent? Why hadn’t he returned? The bus turned down the hill towards our village. Rice and vegetable fields filled my vision. At least the crops must be singing with delight at this gift from the clouds.
The small beep of a motorcycle’s horn sounded. Our bus honked in reply, the sound echoing throughout the bus. I peered out over the shoulder of the man in front of me. The motorcyclist continued to beep as he zoomed around and in front of our bus. He had no head covering. Not even a bamboo helmet. He held a white plastic bag around his shoulders with one hand, as protection from the rain. No wonder he was in such a hurry.
We passed the eel farm. Workers fumbled with black plastic sheets, covering the eels that had been put out to dry. The rain showered over the pungent odor that normally filled the air. For once I didn’t have to hold my breath.
A couple of high school children walked by the side of the road. A girl and boy. The boy held up an umbrella to protect them both. They walked so close their uniforms touched. A first love? At such a young age?
The motorcycle toot-tooted past them, shooting up water. Our bus would certainly do the same. The girl shrank from the side of the road and brushed water from her uniform. The boy, incensed, handed her the umbrella and pulled something from his pocket. Aimed. A slingshot?
I felt as if the boy had missed the motorcycle and hit me. A cold numbing sensation spread across my heart. I squeezed my purse. The purse which held Madame Paper Cutter’s lucky crane, a symbol of happiness and love.
Father had always warned me to focus on my studies. To not be misled by the foolish meanderings of my heart. I had ignored the stares of many boys, including intelligent Classmate Zhang who sat near me in English class at university. I had focused. I had never felt the protection of a boy’s umbrella over my head, his slingshot at the ready. Now it was too late according to Madame Matchmaker.
Madame Matchmaker had been one of the first people to visit upon my return from university. To tell Mother that a match for me would be difficult. Very difficult. Not many bachelors remained in our village. And who wanted a bride with an education? She returned for a visit every few days. She enjoyed chewing on this sorrowful situation, like a cow grinding on a tasty mouthful of grass. Why was I so old and useless? Madame Paper Cutter had said to learn patience. But I thought I needed to learn to act faster. Today, I should have run after Mr. Overindulgent. At least then I would have had a job.
Our bus passed a large plot of land filled with graves. I was almost home. The gravestones looked shiny—silver—in the rain. All this rain. Would Father hold back his unkind thoughts of New Neighbor this time? Would Mother remember what Mei Ling had taught us?
I glanced out the back of the bus. The boy had his slingshot aimed at us now. His pants were soaked from the spray our tires splashed. Some things even he couldn’t protect the girl from.
A car honked. I looked up again, out the front window. Now the impatient motorcyclist had driven into the lane of oncoming traffic to pass a slow-moving bicyclist in the middle of our lane. The honking car headed straight for Mr. Motorcycle. The car honked and honked for Mr. Motorcycle to return to our lane. Mr. Motorcycle just beeped back. They stubbornly raced towards one another, like two cocks fighting. Would the car slow down? Would Mr. Motorcycle move out of the way? How would this game end? Especially in this weather?
“Patience.” I heard Madame Paper Cutter’s voice in my head. Sometimes it was hard to be patient. Especially with the rain falling in your face and wetting your trousers. At the last minute, Mr. Motorcycle swerved back towards our lane. But his tires skidded. He lost control and went sliding off into the fields. Oh, Gods. I gripped so tight to the seat back my fingers hurt. A chill ran down my spine.
The other cock didn’t even slow. Would Mr. Motorcycle be all right? Or would we all soon be standing along the street saying “farewell” as relatives carried his coffin up the road for burial? What would happen to his family? I leaned forward, my nose pressed against the window glass. But the only thing I saw was a white plastic bag sailing away. Then I spotted the pink turrets of Millionaire Huang’s castle up ahead. My stop. At last.
“Xia che,” I called, squeezing past wet people and umbrellas. “My stop.”
I jumped off as soon as the bus pulled to a stop. I ran past Millionaire Huang’s six-floor castle. He wasn’t outside today. Perhaps he exercised in his great hall. Past the high school. Children clustered under mango tree in the yard despite the rain, drinking soy milk and sneaking cigarettes. Past Uncle’s unfinished house. Dark clouds hovered over the empty windows. Past the gravestone maker. My stomach felt tight. Please let me be home before Father and New Neighbor started fighting like cocks.