Sensei, I want you to know that the signboard was etched with the enlarged photographs of hundreds of children, some laughing, others crying; some with their eyes shut, others open in a squint; some had both eyes wide open, others had one eye open and one eye shut; some were looking up, others were looking straight ahead; some were holding out both arms, as if reaching for something; the hands of some were balled into fists, as if they were unhappy; some were sucking on a fist, others had their hands over their ears; some were laughing with their eyes open, some with their eyes shut; some were crying with their eyes open, some with their eyes shut; some had no hair on their heads, others had a headful of black hair; some had soft, golden fuzz, others had sleek, shiny, velvet-like, flaxen hair; some had wrinkly faces, like little old men, some had fat faces with big ears, like little piglets; some had skin as white as glutinous dumplings, others were as dark as coal; some had puckered lips, as if angry, others looked like they were shouting; some were making sucking motions, looking to nurse, other pressed their lips together, cocking their heads, refusing to nurse; some were sticking out bright red tongues, others were sticking out pink ones; some had two dimpled cheeks, some had only one; some had double-fold eyelids, some had single-fold eyelids; the heads of some were round as balls, those of others long as gourds; the brows of some were thoughtfully furrowed, others had raised their eyes… in other words, their appearances and expressions varied widely, and each one was cute as could be. The promotional text informed me that these were pictures of every child born in the hospital in the two years it had been open, a bumper crop. This was truly a great undertaking, a noble one, and a sweet one… Sensei, I was deeply moved. As tears filled my eyes, I heard the call of a sacred noise, and experienced the most solemn feeling a human can know — the love of life; all other love, by comparison, is vulgar, low-class. Sensei, it was as if my soul had received a solemn baptism, and that I’d been given the chance to have all the sins of my past forgiven. Whatever the cause or the effect, I wanted to spread my arms to enfold this innocent new life sent to me by the heavens!
11
Sensei, my soul received a solemn baptism that day as I sat beneath the signboard etched with those hundreds of children’s photographs. All my doubts, wavering, torment, beatings, humiliation, and being pursued were necessary steps in the process. Like the Tang monk Tripitaka, who encountered eighty-one trials on his trip to India for the Buddhist scriptures. A tortuous path leads to Nirvana; tribulations are essential for an understanding of life.
Back home I cleaned my wounds with alcohol and cotton swabs and drank some Yunnan powder steeped in liquor, which is particularly effective for bruises. The physical pain did not go away immediately, but my spirits were high. When Little Lion walked in the door I threw my arms around her and brushed her cheek with mine. Wife of mine, I said, thank you for creating my child. He has been nurtured not in your womb but in your heart. He is our very own child.
She wept.
Sensei, as I sit at my desk writing this letter to you I am pondering how I will raise this child. We are both nearly sixty, our bodies have begun their decline, and we should be looking for a nanny, someone experienced in the raising of a child, or a wet nurse, so that our child will taste mother’s milk. My mother once said that a child raised on cow’s or goat’s milk lacks the smell of mother’s milk. A child that grows and develops on cow’s milk will be vulnerable to many dangers, and I wonder if the unprincipled merchants will actually stop their ‘chemistry’ experiments in the wake of the ‘empty formula’ and ‘melamine formula’ affairs. After the ‘big-headed babies’ and ‘stone babies,’ who knows what kind of babies will come next? Those people are now fleeing with their tails between their legs, like beaten dogs, trying to look as pitiful as possible. But before too many years have passed, their tails will be up in the air again, and they’ll be concocting even worse formulas that will wreak damage on people. I know that mother’s milk is the most precious liquid the world has to offer. The first lactated milk, known as colostrum, contains mysterious elements that, when distilled, are in essence a mother’s love. I have heard of cases where parents have paid large sums of money to their surrogate mothers to purchase colostrum, and some have gone so far as to pay the surrogate to nurse the infant for its first month before taking it home with them. This is expensive, of course. Little Lion told me that the surrogate mothers company would not permit that. According to them, when a woman nurses an infant for a month, she develops an attachment to the child that creates serious problems.
Little Lion’s eyes lit up as she said to me:
I’m his mother, and I’ll produce milk for him!
Mother had told me stories about such things, but they seemed too far-fetched to believe. Maybe, I thought, a young woman who had previously borne and nursed a child might begin lactating again with the stimulation of a child’s mouth and a heart filled with love, but no such miracle would visit Little Lion, a woman nearly sixty who had never been pregnant. If it did, it would be on a level beyond ‘miracle’.
Sensei, I feel no sense of shame in writing about such things to you, a father who took a child the hospital told you had no chance of surviving and raised him. During that process you experienced many similar miracles. So I’m sure you know what I was feeling and have an appreciation for my wife’s abnormal behaviour. Lately she’s wanted to make love every night. She has gone from being a dried-up turnip to a honey peach, and this in itself is almost a miracle. I couldn’t be happier. She reminds me each time: Tadpole, be gentle, take it easy, you don’t want to injure our son. After we finish, she takes my hand and rests it on her belly. Can you feel it? He’s kicking me. She washes her breasts every morning with warm water and gently tugs on her sunken nipples.
When we told my father that she was pregnant, ancient tears rolled down his ninety-year-old cheeks and his beard quivered.
Heaven has eyes, he said emotionally. Our ancestors have revealed themselves. The good shall be rewarded, Amita Buddha!
Sensei, we’ve made all the preparations for the baby, the best that money can buy. A Japanese stroller, a Korean crib, Shanghai disposable nappies, a Russian rubber infant’s bathtub… Little Lion will not allow nursing bottles in the house. What if you don’t have enough milk? I asked her. We should have one just in case. So we bought French bottles and some milk formula imported from New Zealand. But we weren’t convinced that New Zealand formula was safe enough, so I suggested that we buy a milk goat and pasture it at my father’s place. We could move into Father’s house and feed our precious infant freshly squeezed milk every day. Cupping her breasts in her hands, Little Lion said unhappily:
I firmly believe that these could produce fountains of milk!
Our daughter phoned us from Spain and asked what we were doing to keep so busy. Yanyan, I said, I’m really sorry, but I have wonderful news. Your mother is pregnant. You’re going to have a baby brother very soon. That was greeted with a moment of silence. Is that true, Papa? she asked. Of course it is, I said. But how old is Mama? she asked. Go online and you’ll see that a sixty-two-year-old Danish woman just gave birth to a healthy pair of twins. My daughter was thrilled. That’s wonderful! she said. Papa, congratulations to you both, hearty congratulations! Tell me what you need and I’ll send it right away. We don’t need anything, I said. We have everything we need. I don’t care, my daughter said, I’m going to send you something, a gift from the heart of a big sister. Congratulations, Papa. A thousand-year-old sago palm has flowered, a ten-thousand-year-old dead branch has sprouted. You have created a miracle!