To our right, about twenty feet away, was a pile of earth like a giant loaf. It had also been tended recently.
“That’s your brother’s grave,” Uncle Weiren said.
I went over and added a few shovels of fresh dirt, then left an apple and a pear at the front of his grave. Though heavyhearted, I couldn’t conjure up an image of him. If only I’d seen his photo.
Uncle Weiren and I went back to the house for lunch, which consisted of dough flake soup, fried toon leaves, and scrambled eggs. I was grateful for the simple meal, though I knew it might have become a banquet if I were a male family member. Both Minmin and I enjoyed the lozenge-shaped flakes used in place of noodles in the soup. Our good appetite pleased Aunt Ning, who continued to ladle more into our bowls. On the back of her hand was a tiny burn covered with ointment to prevent a blister from forming. This was the first time I’d eaten toon leaves, which were fragrant and had a mellow aftertaste. Their texture in the mouth reminded me of collard greens.
“Where did you get this, Aunt Ning?” I asked.
“From those trees.” She pointed to the backyard, then to the dish. “This is from last year. In a month or so we can have fresh toon leaves.”
I had assumed they were a vegetable grown in a field. My father had mentioned them several times in his diary, in addition to some herbs, such as amaranth, purslane, and shepherd’s purse. In a late May entry he said that toon leaves were in season back home, and he must have been craving them.
After lunch I took two sets of Legos out of the trunk of Minmin’s car and gave them to Uncle Weiren and Aunt Ning for their grandchildren. Then we said good-bye and drove back to the county seat. It wasn’t three o’clock yet, the sky was streaked with only a few high clouds, and it would be a fine evening. Minmin and I decided to check out of the inn and head back to Beijing.
On our drive north, Minmin asked me about my father. I told her that he had worked for China, living in Japan and then America. I even said he had planned to retire back to his homeland, but he died of an illness in DC. “Don’t let anyone know my family background,” I said.
“Of course I won’t,” she promised. “I guess your father might have been bamboozled by the Chinese government. It must be a sad story.”
“His life was very complicated. I’m still trying to piece it together. Don’t let anyone get wind of this trip, all right?”
“Sure, I’ll keep my lips sealed.”
1954
For the first time, Gary took a vacation. George Thomas, recently married and having just returned from the States, had granted him three weeks off. Gary went to Hong Kong in early February, hoping to be able to cross the border to enter Guangzhou; though he didn’t have a passport from Red China, he was still holding the one issued by the Nationalist government. He also had his refugee papers, which permitted him entry to the United States. For five years he hadn’t heard a word from his family and only joined them now and then in his dreams. Were his parents still able to work in the fields? Did Yufeng resent his long absence from home? What could he say about his unfulfilled promise to go back and fetch her in a year or two? What a lousy husband he had been. If he got to see her this time, he would try to give her a child so that she might feel less lonely when he was away, and so that he could have a solid reason for requesting discharge from his overseas mission.
He wasn’t sure whether his superiors would allow him to go home for a visit. All his planning might turn out to be wishful thinking. But in spite of the uncertainty, he was full of hope and couldn’t stop indulging in reveries about a family reunion.
On the very afternoon he checked into a small hotel on Queen’s Road in downtown Hong Kong, he called Bingwen, who was delighted to hear about his arrival and eager to see him. They agreed to meet the next morning, around eleven, at a restaurant near the ferry crossing to Kowloon. Bingwen reminded Gary not to eat too much for breakfast because they’d have an early lunch. Gary didn’t get up until ten thirty the following day. After washing, he set out for the waterfront unhurriedly. On his way he stopped at a bakery stall, bought a small bun stuffed with red-bean paste, and ate it ravenously while strolling. Like anywhere in China, nobody here took notice of his eating on the street. He felt at ease, though he hardly knew this city, having once lived here for only a month (in the barracks at Stanley Fort), and was unable to understand the peddlers’ cries in Cantonese.
When he arrived at the restaurant, Bingwen was already in there, at a window table that commanded a full view of the room and a part of the terrace outside and the harbor. At the sight of Gary, he stood and rushed up to him. The man wore suede boots with brass buckles and a gray wool vest over a white shirt. They hugged, overjoyed to see each other at long last. Gary found that his comrade hadn’t aged in the slightest, having the same bright eyes and the same smooth, vivid face. After tea was served, a willowy waitress handed them each a small warm towel, with which they wiped their faces and hands.
They ordered lunch and resumed chatting. Bingwen pulled an envelope out of the pocket of his cashmere coat draped over the back of another chair. Dropping his voice, he said, “This is a little token of thanks from our country.”
“For what?” Gary asked in bafflement.
“For the information you provided three months ago.”
“Was it useful?”
“Certainly, it helped us smash a clique of spies disguised as returnees from Korea. We nabbed them all, executed a few, and put the rest in jail.”
Gary was shocked but didn’t say another word. He slipped the envelope into his rear pocket. He had assumed that all those anti-Communist POWs would go to Taiwan.
Their food came. The crabmeat dumplings, which Bingwen had ordered for the benefit of Gary’s northern palate, were steaming and puffy. Together with the entrée were some side dishes, all Mandarin. Gary lifted a dumpling onto his plate, cut it in two with his chopsticks, and put half into his mouth. “Oh, delicious,” he said, sucking in his breath because of the heat. “This makes me more homesick.”
A ferryboat blew its horn like a mooing cow, chugging away from the waterside and dragging a frothy wake. Bingwen said, “You’re from Shandong, so we’re having dumplings for this welcome-home lunch.”
“Thanks. When can I go back? You know I haven’t seen my family for five years.”
“Ah, that’s another matter I’m supposed to discuss with you.” Bingwen smiled cunningly, his hawk eyes scanning, as if to check whether the other seven or eight diners were eavesdropping. They were all out of earshot. He said to Gary, “Your family’s fine. We’ve been taking good care of them.”
“Can I go back to see them, just for a short visit?”
“No, you cannot, because the moment you cross the border, the Brits will inform the Yanks about you and that will blow your cover. The Party wants you to stay with the U.S. agency in Okinawa and to gather as much intelligence as you can. For this mission your identity must be kept secret. Brother, I know it’s hard for you. You’ve been making a tremendous sacrifice for our country. For that you have our highest respect.”
Hearing that, Gary felt touched and disarmed, unable to push his request further. A dull pang seized his heart again while a hot lump swelled his gullet. He lowered his eyes and asked, “What if the agency moves back to the United States? There’s been talk about that.”
“Go with them. That’s the instruction from above.”
Gary frowned, breathing hard as though something were stuck in his throat. “Look — I’m going to be thirty in a month, and this celibate life isn’t easy for me.” His voice took on a petulant note. “I won’t say I miss my wife terribly like a newlywed. My parents picked her out for me. But I feel bad, guilty — I shouldn’t have treated Yufeng this way. Besides, I miss home.”