The Same Moon - “Journey to the West” Trilogy
By Junying Kirk
The Same Moon - “Journey to the West” Trilogy
Published by Junying Kirk at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Junying Kirk
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book should be reproduced or transmitted in any form or shape, or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgement
The original painting used for the book cover is by artist and great friend Yongqun Guo (USA), to whom the author owes her eternal gratitude. The author is grateful to the assistance of John Kirk, for his comments on, and editing efforts to, the early versions of this novel. Katy Sozaeva did a great job in editing and polishing this current edition, whose hard work and attention to details are much appreciated.
Special thanks to Phil Bower and Mira Kolar Brown for their valuable advice and generous help in recent months in the often challenging process of publishing this book. Kevin Yuan Bin, Charlotte Chen, Friederike Rice, Marni Mann, A.G. Tran and Kate Bowyer have offered encouragement and support.
The author extends her heart-felt thanks to her world-wide readers under The Same Moon. Hope you all enjoy this book, no matter where you are.
And finally, a special thank-you to Deb Hanrahan of Philyra Publishing for the formatting of this edition.
About the Author
Junying Kirk came to Britain from China in 1988. She has lived almost as long in her adopted country as in the country of her birth. She was born in the 1960s and grew up in the turbulent times of the Cultural Revolution. A British Council scholarship led her to study English Language Teaching at Warwick University, followed by further postgraduate degrees at Glasgow and Leeds. She has worked as an academic, administrator, researcher, teacher and cultural consultant. She now works as a professional interpreter and translator, while spending all her free time writing her books. The first two novels of her Journey to the West trilogy, The Same Moon and Trials of Life have been published on Amazon Kindle, and she is now working on her third. She has a grown-up son and lives in Birmingham, England with her husband.
Dedication
To PoPo & Father - may you rest in peace.
Part One: Under Chinese Skies
Prologue
I witness bright Moonlight in front of my bed.
I suspect it to be hoary frost on the floor.
I watch the bright Moon, as I tilt back my head.
I yearn, while stooping, for my homeland more.
- Li Bai, Tang Dynasty
The landscape is barren and primitive, striking a cruel and almost unique beauty. I look around; the mountain range is covered in snow, kissing the blue sky. Not a single cloud, nor path, nor road sign. All around me are rocky cliffs of various shapes and statures; thick layers of snow and ice forming wondrous sculptures. The sharp whiteness of the snow reflecting the sun is blinding. I blink.
What is this place? The question hovers, the mystery quickly a realisation: Tibet. I have seen it in pictures. An unknown force has transported me to that far-away land; an unseen hand has guided me there. Somewhere there is a deep male voice, barely audible, leading me into this wildness, the place where “even birds would not land,” according to a Chinese cliché.
Then I see him: his pale face, his clearly defined eyebrows above the deepest pools of black and white, and his trembling lips, turning purple. I cannot hear what he is murmuring and I am afraid to ask, fearing that if I speak, the spell will be broken, and he will disappear into that never-ending black hole beyond.
All of a sudden, there are wolves - fierce-looking white wolves - crowding in. Their eyes are reflections of crystal ice, shiny, sharp and merciless, sending a chill down my spine. “Run,” a voice in my head urges me, but I cannot move, my feet glued to the ground. I want to reach out to him, but am unable to free my arms. All I can see are his eyes, full of sorrow and desperation. A lightning-bolt strikes and he is gone, in an instant, just like that.
I shudder and wake up, feeling hot and sweaty. The lingering thunder can still be heard in the distance, and I notice that I have kicked my duvet cover off onto the floor. It has been a cold night - I can feel the chill in the air - yet my nightmares have burnt me.
The dreams of him have been constant for many years. It is weird, definitely surreal, and almost frightening the way he occupies my nightscape with such frequency and insistence. Freud would have us believe that our dreams are rooted in our past, while the Chinese say “dreams at night reflect thoughts of the day.” The strangest thing is, I have hardly ever thought of him - not consciously - for 20-odd years, and nothing in my new environment reminds me of him; yet, he seems to dominate my subconscious.
Every dream seems different, but he remains stoutly the same. He hardly ever speaks, but it is always the same piercing gaze from his dark eyes: so deep, so sad and so lonely. He would appear from nowhere and stand at a distance, staring steadily at me. More often than not, I act like a scared rabbit and avoid returning his gaze. I cannot bear to face him, as his pain seems to penetrate deep into my soul. It is difficult to comprehend how a person can contain such sorrow. I dare not probe. Maybe I just do not want to be reminded.
With few exceptions, after these dreams, I would become wide-awake, with tears in my eyes, a wet patch on my pillow and vivid images left over from my dreams. Does he have a message for me? What is he trying to tell me, this messenger from another world? Has he really been watching over me all these years? Despite my atheist education, I cannot help but wonder.
Fearless I may usually be; therefore I cannot comprehend my fear of his gaze. It follows me around and gives me no hiding place, no solace, and no peace of mind. Maybe, unconsciously, I have been carrying his soul with me, deeply attached to the unseen part that nobody has ever been able to reach. He is there, within me.
I think I know who I am. Over the years, I have tried to become who I want to be. Then I find myself pausing and pondering: do I really know who I am and what I want to be? Does anyone really know?
The search for my identity haunts me, eventually becoming my only burning desire, from which I have no escape. I can no longer control this overwhelming desire to search deep within for the true, life-sized being, not the images I see in a mirror nor what I present to the world.
The time has come, when I must take a good, long look back, beyond the oceans and mountains, beyond countless borders, beyond the crowds of people I have encountered, beyond my shell, and search for the meaning of my existence. Through the looking glass, tinted with the rich colours of passing years, I reflect over significant events, essential to shaping an ordinary life in not such an ordinary way.
Many years after I have made a home in a foreign land known as the United Kingdom, I spin the time machine backwards. When I look up to the sky during those sleepless nights, I see the same moon that I had seen in that remote, then-isolated country, the Middle Kingdom. Reciting silently the poem “The Moonlight,” by Li Bai from Tang Dynasty, one of our greatest poets, I see a little girl, who is lost in that dear ancient land and who then finds herself in her dreams of the New.
Chapter One: Forbidden Love
Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.
-Christina G. Rossetti
The man who haunted me in my dreams was Xia Yu, the solemn-looking boy who first caught my shy eyes when I was barely thirteen, and has occupied a sacred corner in my heart ever since.
"Do you know why my parents named me Xia Yu?" His voice was deep and intense, yet full of tenderness.
Startled, I heard my own shaky voice, replying with a murmur: “I suppose there are two reasons: your dad’s surname is Xia and your mum’ s Yu; they have great expectations of you, their first and only son.”
“Clever girl,” he sounded pleased; a slight trace of smile emerged from the corner of his mouth as I glanced up, but I diverted my eyes just as quickly. I found his passionate gaze disturbing and tantalising at the same time. As if in a dream, Xia Yu cupped my face with his hands and pulled me toward him, planting a kiss firmly on my lips.
It was my first kiss in this world. I was 20 years old.
Spring, 1981
After being awakened by the usual morning exercise music, which was blaring out of the loudspeakers all over campus, I dragged myself out of my top bunk, still grumbling inwardly at this act, at this ungodly hour. It was 6:30 a.m. and still pitch-dark outside.
Like a robot, I trudged to the common washroom at the other side of the corridor and found a space to get water for my washing basin. The water was cold, like a smack on the face. Now I had no choice but awake. The whole dormitory was buzzing with chattering, and doors opening and slamming. I could hear some girls humming cheery tunes, ready to burst into song any minute.
Quickly brushing my hair into bunches, I joined the other girls crushing into the corridor and snaking downstairs, all heading for the exercise ground. In between darkness and light, just before sunrise, the exercise music called us from all directions to pack the quadrangle. We silently followed the voice of instruction: “one, two, three, four…” We went through the same routine every morning, without question. I was in my third year at university, and routine was a fact of campus life.
After half an hour, the monitor of each class took a roll call, and then we dashed off to take breakfast from the common canteen. Inside the canteen, we collected our mess tins and chopsticks from the little locker located on the way in. Hundreds of students queued and chatted while we waited for our portions of rice porridge, pickles and steamed buns, doled out by the chefs in exchange for our meal tickets. We stuffed the food down as we rushed back to the dormitories, our appetites sharpened by the exercise.
Grabbing my books and stuffing them into my bag, I joined my roommates DanDan and Xiao Hong on the 20-minute trek across campus to our first class of the day. Passing the Number Five male dormitory, we studiously ignored the attentions of the boys from the Engineering Faculty. Fully aware that they were looking our way, it was not in our interest to return the compliment. Our sixth senses also told us what they were thinking, even though they would say nothing in front of us. Even amongst the English majors, the women were in the extreme minority.
We arrived at Number Two teaching building, situated on the headland and overlooking the Jialing River, in a deep gorge below. It was one of the oldest buildings within the campus, built of stone in the early 1920s. Wooden floors gave out occasional squeaky noises and the big, high windows spilled natural light into the rooms. It was very draughty in the winter, and there was no heating. Spring weather was the most pleasant, compared to the extremes of the bitterness of winter and the furnace of summer.
Our first, double-period class was Intensive English Reading with Professor Wang. Wang was in his late 50s and used to teach Russian before he was “transferred” to teach English after our leaders in Beijing fell out with the Soviet Union in the early 1960s. He was promoted to Associate Professor because of his thirty years of service rather than the quality of his teaching or his command of English. Some of the more playful students would make fun of his funny and highly inaccurate pronunciation after class. “Must be the influence of his Russian,” Jian would say, while he mimicked Prof Wang's accent, then pull a face, serving as “joke of the day” for the whole class to enjoy.
The lessons were excruciatingly boring and followed exactly the same formula every time. All students had to buy Professor Xu Guozhang's textbook and read through the English texts, obviously written by a Chinese person, in the Chinese context. Even the teacher's notes were pre-produced, with exactly the same examples for vocabulary and grammar. As usual, Professor Wang asked us to read aloud after him; sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, punctuated with explanations on certain grammar points and several different examples to help practise certain new words. Two hours later, we were supposed to have learnt how to use the “future tense.”
More classes followed - with more or less the same formula - with a dictation test for the listening class. Between each class, there was about a ten-minute break, barely enough for us to dash to the next classroom. There was no coffee or tea break, but at 12 o’clock we would race for lunch, and then would be allowed a siesta for two hours before the afternoon sessions.
Upon returning to the dorm, before fetching food at the canteen, I spotted a letter from a northern city waiting for me on our shared desk in the middle of the room. One roommate had collected it from the mail lady at the front gate. I smiled.
It had travelled two thousand kilometres, and for two weeks to the day, as I could detect from the date of the damaged stamp. It was a surprise - there were few surprises those days for a normal university student, and all normal students lived a boring and highly organised communal life, unlike typical student life in the West.
That was Yu’s first letter, on my 20th birthday. It was not planned. He did not know of my birthday, nor did I of his. The post in China those days was anything but reliable - you never knew how long it was going to take for your mail to arrive or even if it would reach you at all.
Shocking it may sound, but true; I had never celebrated my birthdays before, even though I had wanted to. I didn’t remember any of my family members making a fuss over their birthdays, either.
When I informed my parents that I was going to celebrate my 21st birthday, the year I was about to graduate from university, they laughed at the idea: "People don’t celebrate birthdays unless they are 50, 60 or 70!" I didn’t know then that 18 and 21 were significant birthdays in the West; I just thought how awful it was that I had to wait until I reached half a century or older to celebrate - what if I never made it?
Somehow, my 20th birthday proved to be one of the first turning points in my life. On that warm spring day, in 1981, I heard my heart thumping as I carefully opened Xia Yu’s letter. My hand shaking a little, I eagerly read the following:
Dear Pearl,
I heard that you have good feelings for Yu. If this were true, are these good feelings equal to love.
Yours,
Rain
The pronunciation of his name, “Yu,” could also mean “rain” if it were written differently in Chinese.
I could not believe my eyes when I saw his beautifully fluid handwriting creating those sweet words. I blushed with excitement, heat arising within me and seeping throughout. It was completely unexpected, but at the same time it was as if I had been waiting for it ever since I first set my eyes on him many years ago.
Yu was every young girl’s dream. Never had I dreamt that he would write something so romantic to me, of all the girls he could have picked, and I smiled at this incredible thought.
“He wrote to me,” I heard myself cry happily, putting my hands on my heart. “The Prince of Hongxin School” was courting me, an ugly duckling!
From the junior to the senior secondary schools, between ages 13 and 17, I was in the same class as Yu, and I quietly fancied him, like most girls in my year. He was extremely good-looking, with deep, dark eyes, thick eyebrows, a straight nose and an expressive mouth on his well-proportioned face. He was intelligent too, top of the class in almost all academic subjects.
He was like some kind of idol. Since there were no film or pop stars for teenage girls to worship at that time, Yu was worshipped from a distance, but he was not within reach. My innocent fantasy of the opposite sex was simply to harbour a subtle admiration in the depths of my heart, which I shared with no one, not even my best friend Lingling. It was not only because I was shy and lacking in confidence, but had more to do with the social conditions in that era.
I was so overwhelmed with joy and excitement that nothing else seemed to matter. My first reaction was to find Lingling. She was doing an engineering course in a different department, but we saw each other regularly. We lived in the same dorm, also; I on the fourth floor and she two floors down. I knew she had been secretly dating a schoolmate of ours. Her boyfriend was younger than she was, and I had heard unpleasant gossip about them, but Lingling did not care.
"Hey, c'mon in." Lingling looked pleased, getting out of her top bunk. Like me, she was sharing her room with five other girls. Sensing that I had something important to tell her, we quietly slipped out of her room and headed to Mingzhu Lake, a few minutes’ walk from our dorm.
Blushing, and a little nervous, I handed Yu’s letter to her. To my great relief, she did not tease me, and we immediately started drafting a reply:
Dear Rain,
If Pearl’s good feelings towards Yu were equal to love, do you have the same feelings towards her?
Yours,
Precious
During the rest of that day, I was hardly myself, and felt as if floating on clouds. I sat through the afternoon classes without paying attention to what was taught. Fortunately, it was Extensive Reading class, where we were focusing on Charles Dickens' novel, David Copperfield. We covered about two pages of text in two hours. So in one academic year, we managed to finish an abridged version. Why did they call it Extensive Reading? I could not help wondering. Due to my impatient nature and eagerness to find out what happened to those fascinating characters that Dickens had depicted, I finished it in three nights, despite my limited command of English vocabulary and having to look words up in the dictionary every so often.
In Yu, I found an enthusiastic listener. We used the only communication channel we had - writing to each other every day. We talked about everything, from our studies to the friends we used to know, as well as the books we were reading. We described our dreams for the future, and most of all, we talked about love.
It was a very romantic notion of love we shared, and in a very spiritual sense. He would quote from his favourite poems to show how he felt about me, while I often made references to Western literature to tell him how he captured my heart and set it on fire. Once he quoted from a Shakespearian sonnet - “Shall I compare thee to the summer's day?” - in Chinese. I looked up the English original and recited it to myself in a whisper.
The books I read impacted greatly on my views of life and love. I had just finished reading Jane Eyre in English, which I found extremely powerful, and has remained one of my all-time favourites. Yu had read the Chinese version and seen the film, so we were able to discuss our views and offer our own critiques.
I feel inspired by Jane Eyre's spirits. She believed in gender equality and social justice, at the time when women's roles were limited to the household, and the poor had no voice. Listen to what she had to say: "Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex."
The book is so beautifully written, illustrating Jane Eyre's strong personality and her determined pursuit for love and romance. I was so touched on many occasions, especially when her friend Helen died of consumption in the school, when Rochester proposed to her, and then when she finally returned to him when he was blind.
Love is a powerful emotion, and I feel so lucky that I am in love.
We shared similar tastes, even though we sometimes had different perspectives. We both loved world literature. I was an incurable fiction fan, while he loved poetry. He favoured the English Romantic poets Shelley and Lord Byron, whose verses provided rich expression for the love we had found in each other.
My lovely Pearl,
Here is something for you. Obviously I only read the Chinese translation of Lord Byron's poems, but I'm sure you'll be able to read the English original and appreciate more its beauty and rhyme. I think of you when I read it aloud.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
I could almost hear his voice and picture him as I held that priceless piece of thin paper in my hand. In our limited, yet sweet, small world, which we had created through writing, we grew and became inspired by the past and present literary giants and their works. From Anna Karenina of Tolstoy, to Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, from English classical plays and sonnets by Shakespeare, to more contemporary works by American writers such as Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway and Walter Whitman, we were enthralled and entranced by another world, a world far away, completely different from our own.
I love Thomas Hardy, whose fatalistic view on love and life has a strong influence on my outlook. You could say that I'm like a faithful disciple. I believe that everything is destined even before we were born, and there is little we can do to change what is to come. Do you agree?
Have you read Gone with the Wind? It's been translated into Chinese and a current hot-read among the students here. I'd love to read the English version one-day, if that's possible.
In Yu's response, he gently put forward his point of view:
Yes, I agree with you that certain things in life are predetermined, by the gods or God, be they pagan, religious or atheist. Like you and me, we must have Yuanfen to have met and fallen in love. I firmly believe that we're made for each other.
I also believe that we are given some power over our own destiny, and we can make things happen if we really want to. Don't you think so, my love? I know you must do.
In eager anticipation, and earnest effort to pour our heartfelt feelings on paper, we played the word games with wit, innocence and deep joy, spending hours and hours devising letters. I also confessed my feelings in my diary:
I am so happy. Going to the library is no longer a dreary duty, as I don’t have to spend every minute there reading and revising for tests and exams. I am able to indulge in my thoughts of my sweetheart and what I can write to him, giving my imagination free reign. Love is such a beautiful thing. Life is wonderful.
One day in May I received another long letter, with a recent photo of Yu. Picking it up eagerly, I noticed that it had been torn open and sealed again. Apparently someone had read it. I could not tell who did it, as any girl in my room could have, or people at the various levels of authority through which the letter had gone before it landed on my desk.
At the back of my mind, my suspicion was directed at Tian Li. She had been on everyone’s back, and probably was informing on us. She was on a crusade to join the Communist Party.
Suppressing my disgust, and despite a slight worry about being exposed, the photo still made my day. Yu looked absolutely gorgeous, his ink-black, thick eyebrows like two piercing swords, more handsome than I had remembered. His beauty touched the very core of my heart. He was wearing an army cap, with a red star right in the middle, which highlighted his dark eyes, which were sparkly and shiny. There was a noticeable shade of a smile at the corner of his full mouth, which appeared unfamiliar; my impressions of him in the school days were that of being cool, serious and distant.
The photo has captured me at my best. I admire the skill of the photographer, he had written on the back. I nearly pinched myself, disbelieving that someone as beautiful as Yu would fall for me, an average-looking girl next door.
Oh, God, look at me, I thought in dismay, scrutinising my own appearance. The dark-grey shirt had no shape and the trousers, with their creases, were hardly flattering, and one size too short, besides.
It was not just my plain clothes that bothered me; it was my lack of confidence that made me disheartened. Many girls my age paid more attention to their appearance and were utterly presentable to their male admirers, while I did not even like looking at myself in the mirror, or having my photo taken. If I was honest, I would say that I disliked my flat nose and spotty face, which was constantly aggravated by my scratching, leaving scary scars everywhere. Nobody had ever complimented me when I was growing up.
Oh dear, he is asking for a photo of mine in return, I panicked. What shall I do?
Naturally, I could not refuse him. That evening, I went through my collections - a few black and white shots - taken with my siblings. The most recent photo was one of the first coloured photos available in China, taken two weeks before by my American teacher, Miss Edwards, shortly after she started teaching us. Everyone in my class had been lined up to have a photo taken, and later she kindly gave us a copy as a present. I enclosed the picture in the letter and apologised sincerely for the way I looked, meanwhile worrying sick about how he would respond when he saw it.
Years later, in a different century and on a different continent, my friend Charlotte came across the same photo while leafing through my old photo album. She looked at the photo first, then glanced at me, and then again examined the picture closely. "Oh, Pearl, was that you? You looked stunning. How old were you? 15?"
Leaning over to see which one she was talking about, I saw it, a little smile on an oval face obviously belonging to a girl that used to be me. I caught myself exclaiming with disbelief: "Oh my God. That’s me, all these years ago."
It was not only youth and passion for life that shone through these dark-brown eyes, there was innocence, a mixture of shyness and uncertainty, and a certain longing written all over that face. There was no makeup nor pretence, but a smile was identifiable from the slightly widening mouth.
Under Charlotte's insistence, I took another look and conceded that I did look like a 15 year old. "It was a photo of a girl in love," I told her. A flash of the past sprung across my mind, taking me down memory lane.
Summer, 1980
The school reunion took place one evening, and about 15 former students turned up. I lived just around the corner and our form teacher, Mrs Chen, made sure that Mother gave her permission for me to attend.
Yu was Mrs Chen's favourite student and monitor of Class A, Grade 78. His deputy, Aihua Yang, was there too. Her name was typical of the era, meaning “Love China”. Both her parents were Communist party officials, and her father was in charge of the local council - the big boss in town.
The reunion party was formal, like many other gatherings; a patterned formula. Mrs Chen made a speech, with the usual opening banter on governmental policies and our duties to the society, followed by praises about what wonderful examples we had set for the future pupils in Hongxin School. She gave a list of students who had achieved good grades for universities, and especially those managed to get into key institutions: among them were Yu and me. She reminded us how lucky we were. Taking into account the fact that less than 1 percent of our age group was able to enjoy higher education, we were indeed the very fortunate minority.
As the leader of the class, Yu was next, after the long, boring speech from Mrs Chen. Thankfully, he did not put us through more politically correct nonsense; instead he recited a Tang poem titled “An Ascent to Stork Hall”:
The setting sun behind the mountains glows,
The muddy Yellow River seawards flows.
If more distant views are what you desire,
You simply climb up a storey higher.
It was an appropriate reading for the occasion, delivering the message of encouragement and good wishes to everyone. Does it imply any of Yu’s ambitions? I stole a quick glance at him at the other end of the table. From his deep voice and the serious look on his face, I knew that he aimed high. What is he aiming for? I wondered. I could not help blushing, embarrassed by thoughts of him. My spirits had wandered, far away in a different, more private world of my own.
Lingling elbowed me, which startled me, drawing my daydreaming back to reality. “Look at her, I think she is trying to attract someone's attention,” Lingling whispered into my ear.
Aihua was reading a poem by the late Chairman Mao, which immediately won applause from everyone present. Despite Mao’s death a few years before, he was still the revered god of my generation and the generations before us.
To my horror, the attention was suddenly on me. My heart was beating like mad and my face burned at the thought of standing up in front of an audience. I could see Yu’s gaze from the corner of my eye and sensed that he was expecting something from me.
I tried to sit still, as if I wasn’t really there. I hung onto the hope that if I pretended not to be there, I could get through the evening without exposing myself. No such luck; protocols had to be followed and everyone there was expected to contribute to the “entertainment” of the evening. I had no escape.
Under pressure and with great reluctance, I sang a song with Lingling, who was the more mature and confident of the two of us. We chose a love song from an old film, which was very popular and loved by many. The tune and lyrics of “Why the Flowers Were This Red” were sad but beautifully touching.
During the terrible turmoil of the Cultural Revolution (1966-76), we were deprived, not only in material terms, but even more so in spiritual terms. All literature, arts, and music were “cleansed,” and anything to do with love between man and woman was forbidden. When it was over, following Mao's death in 1976, the oldies and goldies gradually returned. Tradition was again observed and welcomed. Some official bans were lifted, as in the case of those old films and folk songs.
As I stood singing, I could feel the intensity of Yu’s gaze. It felt like electricity shooting through my body. For a brief moment I forgot my nervousness and where I was. An unknown, overwhelming feeling embraced me. It was like being in a dream, only to be awakened when the party was suddenly over and people started to leave.
Lingling and I exchanged cheerful goodbyes with each other, and with the few female students who were there. We did not speak to any of the boys, even then. When I saw Yu disappearing into the darkness I felt at a loss, and in my heart I longed to disappear with him.
A Year Later, 1981
Did you know that I suggested to Mrs Chen that we hold that reunion party last summer, my darling Pearl? I so wanted to see you, even just from a distance. I loved the song you sang with Lingling. You have a brilliant voice. It touched my heart deeply, and I still remember vividly how you looked that night. You were radiant, not like the bright sunlight, but more like the moon, quietly shiny and absolutely beautiful. Did you notice that I stared at you from the other side? Were you nervous?
The most wonderful spring was inevitably followed by a hot, humid summer. That May, June and July had been the happiest time in my university days. I went to bed with starry eyes, praying silently that Yu would come into my dream world. Each morning I woke up with a smile on my face and a spring in my heels.
Yu was far in distance but close to my heart. I would read his letters many times, until I memorised every single word. Even when the exam pressure was on and the workload was mounting up, I would find time to write back. We did not have access to any telephones, and all we could do was to use our pens to transmit our love through telepathic means. Writing had never given me so much pleasure until then.
These letters were my meat and bread. Otherwise I could not taste my food and I had no appetite. Every morning I went to the mail lady without delay. If for some reason the post was delayed, I would be so dispirited that I could not concentrate on anything until another letter reached me.
Many hours of my usual study time were spent composing loving and affectionate messages to him.
I miss you so much that I am counting the days before we can meet in the summer. Time is going so slowly without you. I don't know what is happening to me. I think I’m losing my mind.
The day before the holiday came, another letter arrived. He was just as eager, but there was disappointing news.
My parents already know about us and they are looking forward to meeting you, as my chosen girlfriend. I mentioned to you before that they had suggested for me to date Yang Aihua, because her parents and mine are old friends. My parents are very fond of her. However, I have insisted that I do not like her myself and that I have already decided that you would be my girl. What about your parents?
Because of heavy flooding from the Yellow River, we've been ordered to stay behind to help the local people to fight the disaster. It's especially bad this year, as the water level keeps rising, and has already destroyed many farms and low-rise buildings in many counties. I regret to say that I won't be able to come back as planned. I shall try my best though, my love, even if only for two weeks. I so want to see you.
I want to shower you with kisses.
He wanted to kiss me, a girl who had never been kissed before. These words filled me with such longing, while I read his letter for the tenth time.
Almost every year there was some kind of natural disaster in different parts of China: famine, drought or flooding. The summer of 1981 witnessed one of the worst periods of flooding in years.
The flood warning came during the end-of-term exams. Worries about being trapped, and therefore unable to visit home, had troubled me greatly. Many hours of sleep were lost, partially through stress over the exams, but more so over the uncertainly of the summer ahead.
Yu's university was near the Yellow River, which flooded more often than not, causing great damage to its nearby cities and villages year after year. All Chinese military university graduates would be army officers and were given military training. Joining the rescue team meant losing part of his summer holiday. Despite a three-day journey each way and only having two weeks' holiday remaining, his promise of imminent meeting comforted me.
Yet, something eerie was creeping into my consciousness. After agonising over and over again about the issue of parental approval, I chose written communication over face-to-face. A week before the summer holiday broke, I wrote to my parents, informing them that Yu and I had been writing to each other and that I wanted their permission for us to date. Dreading their answer, yet preferring no knowledge of their possible reaction just yet, I timed it so as to not give them the chance to write back to say “no.”
The rules had been clear: I was not supposed to go out with anyone until I finished university. My parents and I had never openly discussed such matters, but the assumption was that I knew what was expected of me. Over the years, I had certainly learned not to ask for things that they did not offer, all too aware that I needed their permission to have a boyfriend.
The journey back to Hongxin passed in a haze. My apprehension and uncertainty about the “sentence” overshadowed the normal drudgery of five hours’ bumpy coach ride. I did not know what to expect. My parents had not been known for their understanding of either their children or the meaning of democracy.
Somehow, I felt a little envious of Yu. As the only son and eldest in his family, he had been endowed with certain powers over his parents. It was a relief that his parents had given approval of me.
Think positively, I told myself. I was 20 years old and mature enough to have a boyfriend. On the plus side, Mother knew Yu from school and both my parents were acquainted with his. Yu's father worked as an official in the county court and his mother as an administrator in the local silk factory.
On arrival at home, after a week's delay from the flooding, I felt the tension in the air. Father did not give me a welcome smile as he usually did, and Mother was in a foul mood. No mention of my recent letter was given in our brief, minimum exchange.
Dinner was served in muted silence. Even my little brother, the lively and naughty Ming, hardly uttered a word. He had probably been warned that his sister was not to be greeted with the usual bantering. As if on cue, the male members quickly left the table, leaving me facing Mother's grim face and twisted, angry lips.
"What did you think you were doing? Telling us that you wanted a boyfriend, just like that? No, both your father and I don't agree. It would be the right thing to do to discontinue your relationship with him."
Her voice was severe and sharp, bordering on a controlled shout. There was no discussion, nor an attempt to explain. She didn't even bother spelling out Yu's name, as if it was something despicable, as if he was a criminal.
For a brief moment, I felt numb and did not know how to respond. Tears were welling into my eyes, and I felt hurt and disbelieving. After a deadly silence, I managed a whisper: "Why?"
"Why?" she yelled, with high-pitched voice, not believing that I dared to challenge her. Then in a totally dismissive tone, as if talking to a spoilt, disruptive pupil, she started her lecture, most of which did not make sense to me. I was too shocked and saddened to fully comprehend what she was saying.
With the bits and pieces of what I did hear, I got the gist of her displeasure over my choice. She condemned Yu’s father "a politically ambitious person who would have done anything to get where he is."
"Do you have any idea how badly his father behaved during the Cultural Revolution, and hurt many people?" Her voice contained utter contempt, expecting no answer from me, and she continued: "As for his mother, she was previously a low-class actress at the local opera house. They caused a scandal when they got married, without the permission of the Party authorities."
How could you say “no” simply because you do not like Yu’s parents? I rebuked her in silence. She gave me no chance to speak. Any attempt to explain or to defend on my part was quickly submerged by her angry outbursts.
I sat with my head down, as Mother went on and on, sometimes a relatively “calm lecture,” but more often irritable yelling. It reminded me of those denunciation meetings when “people’s enemies” were denounced and “struggled” against by the radicals. She was telling me all these things about Yu’s parents as if they were the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Even as ignorant and inexperienced as I was, I had an inkling that they were probably just rumours and stories she had heard one place or another.
It was hours later when Mother felt that she had presented sufficient evidence to convince me of the finality of their decision. The message was crystal clear: there was no way that they would ever allow me to go out with Yu. "As soon as he returns, you tell him that you do not wish to see him anymore," concluded Mother.
For the next few days, home life was almost as normal as it could be. Nobody in the household mentioned Yu.
One day, I went shopping with Mother at the local market, and we bumped into Yu’s mother and sister. Mother pretended that she did not see them and turned away before they could approach us. I badly wanted to go over and say hello. Instead, acting like a puppet and a coward, I followed Mother and walked away, only to bitterly regret my actions afterwards.
Father was an obsessive Sichuan Opera fan. He would watch every play by the local opera house, as many times as possible. Mother usually went along, despite her lack of interest.
As children, my siblings and I positively hated the opera. We preferred cinema, even though there was hardly anything of great interest, except revolutionary propaganda films made for the Communist Party, and a few from our “comrades” in North Korea, Albania, and former Yugoslavia.
We had no input in our preferred choice of entertainment or any such matters, and an obligation to accompany our parents. On hindsight, I would have enjoyed them more had I been given the choice occasionally. Those trips actually did a lot of good in building my knowledge of the theatre and Chinese history. Not only was it one of the few means of entertainment available, it also taught me a lot about significant historical events, well-known legends, and famous literary figures who had somehow “disappeared” from our textbooks.
One evening we went to watch a popular Sichuan Opera called Women Generals in the Yang Family. This legend - about how the widows of the Yang family fought against the invading Barbarians after their sons and husbands died on the battlefields, giving their lives to defend their country and the emperor - dated back to over a thousand years ago. It had a strong feminist flavour, exemplifying morals highly regarded in the Chinese culture, such as selfless sacrifice, heroism, loyalty, patriotism and the pursuit of glory. It was one of the plays I did not need too much persuasion to watch again.
As we approached the theatre and queued at the only entrance, I saw Yu’s parents and sisters in front of us. His father turned and said “hello” to my father, offering his hand as a typical Chinese greeting between males.
To my utter embarrassment, Father ignored him. Mother did not even bother to look at them, and dragged me past them without a word or nod of recognition. The rest of the evening went by like a blur. Even the exciting and glamorous stage performances could not distract me from the sense of guilt and shame.
A few days later, at around 6 p.m., a message was passed to me through Mother.
"He is back and wants to see you in their house.” Mother spat it out, her tone spiteful and stern, her look furious at the way that I was “summoned” without her and Father being shown the respect of consultation first.
"The Xia family needs to know their position and you're the one to get that across," she gave me a quick reminder, stressing again my mission; then shouted after me: "Remember, you've got half an hour."
Yu’s parents lived in a flat in the staff building located inside the local court, about half an hour’s walk from my parents' house, which was located within the school compound. I ran downhill to my destination, panting and sweating. It was very hot, with steaming humidity.
The summer months in Sichuan, especially July and August when the temperature often reached 40 degrees centigrade, were extremely difficult times. It was unbearable, often causing loss of appetite during the day and making it impossible to sleep at night. Even the occasional wind and breeze were uncomfortably hot, pushing hot air straight at you. The short period when the heat was within human tolerance was limited to a couple of hours before sunrise, and the hours in the early evening as the sun set to the west. In a rare, clear day, one could see the different colours lighting up the sky in the evening.
It was one of these fabulous sunsets with wondrous shades of red, orange, and pink against a light grey to almost pale blue sky. Normally I would stop to marvel at such a feast of natural splendour spread out to feed my eyes, but not this evening. My heart had miraculously left me, rushing somewhere.
Turning the corner of the main street, I slowed down to catch my breath. On approaching the court, I looked up in hesitation and saw his face through the window, overlooking the front gate. He raised his hand to wave as I headed upstairs. I could feel my heart throbbing, threatening to jump out of my chest.
The door was open, and there he was, alone and standing upright, his eyes looking straight at me. The soft ray of the evening sun was shining through the window behind him. For a moment, I saw a man wrapped in the bright light, nearly blinding me. The sunshine and his gaze made a powerful combination.
Not knowing where to put my hands or how to position myself, I blinked and avoided looking into the light, which shone through the window in front of me. We did not speak, taking in this moment, which was framed and frozen in time.
My parents would never have left me alone if Yu were the one coming to see me, was my first thought.
How I would have loved to have thrown myself at him and held him against me! But… I didn’t. I found myself trembling and shaking as I followed him silently into the living room. I sat down on the chair next to him.
Unable to keep my head up in order to face him, I heard him asking if I was OK. Upon hearing his voice at such close range, for the first time, I could no longer control my feelings. Hands over my face, I started to cry. In between sobbing, I managed to murmur: "They won’t allow me to see you again."
A deadly silent pause, seemingly stretching for an eternity; then Yu’s hand reached out and touched my hair. Gently he said: "Don’t cry, it’s all right. We’ll try to persuade them."
"No, we can’t, you don’t know my parents. They cannot be persuaded." I shook my head, filled with despair.
Before he could reply, we heard a knock on the door. His parents came in, offering cold drinks, fruit and snacks.
With the handkerchief Yu handed to me, I dabbed away the tears from my wet cheeks. I straightened up and struggled for a smile, exchanging some pleasantries with his parents. They were friendly.
While I was still nervous, my anxiety seemed to temporarily be under control. I began to take note of my surroundings. This was apparently the main reception room, with a dining table in the middle of the room. Yu was sitting at one side of the table, while I occupied the seat on his right-hand side. In front of me, Yu’s mother had placed some sunflower seeds and roasted peanuts, as well as some freshly cut watermelon.
“Thank you, Auntie Yu; I will help myself. Please don’t trouble yourself.” I found myself speaking in a small voice, slightly overwhelmed by the combination of her hospitality and my embarrassment.
From their conversations and body language, I could detect the strong bond joining this family, which was quite unlike the one I had with mine. The love Yu’s parents felt for one another - and for their son - was apparent for all to see.
There was little doubt that my parents loved me - in their own way - but they never told me they did. I had often wondered if my parents even loved each other. I had never witnessed any displays of affection nor verbal endearments between them.
Although conscious of the time limit Mother had imposed, I forced out the thoughts of possible consequences. After his parents went to their room to give us privacy, Yu asked me what his name meant. I offered my interpretations, but my mind wandered, as I remembered the comments my father had made days before.
"What kind of name is that? How dare the parents name their son after an emperor? Bloody arrogant and shameless, I'd say," spat Father.
Unlike in the West, where people would name their children after disciples from the bible, or kings and queens in history, or their own ancestors, it is hardly acceptable for the Chinese to name their descendants after emperors. Also, while Xia is quite common, Yu is a rare surname; the result, Xia Yu, is one of the famous names in Chinese history.
Xia was the reign name of the quasi-legendary dynasty founded by Yu, who is said to have drained away the floods to render China habitable. Yu also established the first family dynasty, called Xia, by passing the crown to the eldest male child. Seventeen Xia kings are listed in Shi-Ji, a comprehensive history written during the 1st century BC, covering the period from the 21st to mid-16th century BC, beginning some two thousand years before Christ. Chinese culture has been named the Hua-Xia culture ever since.
"Clever girl." Yu's delighted response called me back from my distractions. It was then he kissed me, my very first kiss by a man.
Not knowing how to kiss, or how to respond to a kiss, I didn't know what to do or how to feel. In a panic, I tried to turn my head away from him. Touching his lips only briefly upon my quivering lips, his hot mouth then fell onto my burning cheek.
Until that moment, I had never seen anyone kissing in real life. Since literature with any detail of physical contact between men and women was banned, most books published in the ‘60s and ‘70s were “revolutionary” in content. We only ever talked about love for Chairman Mao and the Communist Party, not between two sexes.
As “good” girls, we did not talk to boys. There was an unwritten code that genders didn’t mix and mingle, even though all Chinese schools were co-ed. It was very bad for boys to chat up girls, for they would be called playboys or womanisers, and condemned as being immoral and lowlifes. It was even worse if it was the other way around. Girls bold enough to talk to and socialise with boys had to have lots of nerve, and as a result would end up suffering a ruined reputation. A ruined reputation was the worst thing that could possibly happen to a girl in China; the damage and shame would follow her a lifetime.
I remember there was a middle-aged woman who worked in the hairdresser's on the high street. Sometimes, when I passed the shop, I could hear people whispering, or occasionally boys shouting “worn shoes,” a curse especially reserved for women who had illicit liaisons with men. Prostitution had been banned under Communist rule. A woman would be labelled “worn shoes” simply by conducting an extra-marital affair. In the worst-case scenario, she could virtually be forced to hang a pair of worn shoes over her neck and then be paraded on the streets to be publicly shamed.
On top of the strict control of parents, there was the ethical code of the schools and universities, which mandated that nobody, male or female, was allowed to have a romantic relationship. Even though it appeared quite impossible for the authorities to forbid people from falling in love, the rules were to be obeyed without question. In reality, therefore, sexual relationships were completely taboo, and any form of romantic relationship was forbidden fruit. Homosexuality was unheard of.
No Mills and Boon-type romance was available, with only a small selection of “underground” books, labelled “yellow fiction,” referring to any novels and stories with minor sexual innuendoes, for the most part published in the 1950s and before when it was less restricted. Even modern Chinese books that were banned were highly implicit when they came to describing love scenes. Writers would pause with typical lines like: “he walked towards her and she turned off the lights.” So the readers were left to imagine what the characters were about to do, but imagination was not something to be encouraged anyway. Romance and sex, in implication, was not something to be made explicit, nor should it be seen. It was something undesirable and could only be done when it was night, in darkness and behind closed doors.
I did not know any better. All my early years were marked by my constant efforts to be “good and normal,” and trying to please everyone; a good daughter to my parents, a good pupil and student to my teachers, and a good youth who loved Chairman Mao and the Communist Party wholeheartedly.
As I sat there, profoundly confused, Yu drew me closer. This time, he was not deterred by any protestations I put up through my body language. Wrapping his arms around me, he levelled his face to mine, searching for my lips. When he found them he pressed hard on my burning lips. I could not breath, nor move my hands, in his tight grip. It was beyond my control.
Some minutes passed before Yu slowly relaxed his hold on me. I tilted my head to one side to rest it upon his shoulder, and stayed in his arms. I could feel his firm hands on my back and his breath by my ear was getting quicker and heavier.