Everything went fine from Los Angeles to Hawaii, but Hawaii, of course, still belonged to the United States. Past Hawaii, from the island of Midway (which the Japanese had seized, almost unnoticed, during the time of fighting against the little scaly devils) on, every stop the Liberty Princess made before Shanghai was in the Empire of Japan.
And the Japanese were suspicious. Now Liu Han wished her visit to the United States had drawn less public notice. Whenever Japanese inspectors came aboard the ship, they naturally tried to prove she and Liu Mei were, in fact, just who they were, despite papers purporting to prove them to be other people altogether.
They never quite managed. Liu Han thanked the gods and spirits in whom she was not supposed to believe for the English Liu Mei and she had picked up getting ready to visit the USA and improved while there. They used it as much as they could, baffling the Japanese who did not speak it and holding their own with the ones who did. Even in the Philippines, where many puppets of the eastern dwarfs were fluent in English, Liu Han and Liu Mei kept steadfastly insisting they were people other than their true selves, and got by with it. Without absolute proof-which they could not get-the Japanese did not care to embroil themselves with the United States.
After the last Japanese official gave up in frustration, after the Liberty Princess was finally cleared to sail for Shanghai with the two Chinese women aboard, Liu Han turned to her daughter and said, “Do you see? This is what the power of a strong country is worth. The United States protects its people and protects its ships. One day, China will be able to do the same.”
Liu Mei did not try to hide her bitterness. “Before we become a strong country, Mother, we have to become a country of any sort. As far as the little scaly imperialist devils are concerned, we are nothing but part of their Empire.”
“That is why we have traveled so far,” Liu Han answered. “We did everything we could in the United States, I think. Weapons are coming. I do not know just when they will reach us: the Japanese and the Kuomintang and the little devils will all make that as hard as they can. But the weapons will come sooner or later. The People’s Liberation Army will take advantage of them sooner or later. And, sooner or later, the scaly devils will pay for their aggression and oppression. How long that takes doesn’t matter. Sooner or later, it will happen. The dialectic demands it.”
Except for mentioning the dialectic, she might have been a little scaly devil talking. One of the things that made them so dangerous was their habit of thinking in the long term. Mao had coined a good term to describe them: he called them incrementalists. They never retreated, and kept moving forward half an inch here, a quarter of an inch there. If they needed a hundred years or a thousand years to reach their goals, they didn’t care. Sooner or later, they would get there-or so they thought.
But then Liu Mei said, “If the little scaly devils had come here sooner, they could have easily conquered us. We also have to worry about whether we can afford to wait.”
“We have the dialectic on our side. They did not,” Liu Han said. But her daughter’s words worried her. The dialectic said nothing about when victory would come. She could only hope it would come in her lifetime. Most of the time, she didn’t worry about not knowing. Every once in a while, as today, it ate at her.
The Liberty Princess sailed up the Yangtze to Shanghai. The city had more Western-style buildings than any other in China, having been the center of the round-eyed devils’ imperialist ambitions before the coming of first the eastern dwarfs from Japan and then the little scaly devils. Liu Han had known that, of course, but it had meant little to her because she’d seen few Western-style buildings before coming to the United States. Now she’d spent months in a city of nothing but Western-style buildings. She studied the ones in Shanghai with new eyes.
The city meant something different to Liu Mei. “So this is where my father died,” she said in musing tones. “That did not mean so much to me before I learned about him from the American who knows so much about the little devils.”
“Nieh Ho-T’ing always said he died very bravely,” Liu Han said, which was true. “He helped men of the People’s Liberation Army escape after they struck the little devils a stinging blow.” She looked at Shanghai with new eyes herself. Memories of Bobby Fiore came flooding into her mind-and a little jealousy at how interested Liu Mei had been in the American half of her family.
Again, her daughter might have picked the thought from her mind. “In everything that matters, I am Chinese,” Liu Mei said. “You were the one who raised me. We are going home.” Liu Han smiled and nodded. Liu Mei wasn’t as right as she thought, thanks to the little scaly devil named Ttomalss. Liu Han’s daughter did not smile, because the little devil had not-could not-smile at her while trying to raise her after stealing her as a newborn from Liu Han. Liu Mei knew that had happened to her, but remembered none of it. It had marked her just the same.
“Now we have only to get off this ship, get onto the train, and go home to Peking,” Liu Han said. “And, I think, before we do that, we have to stop somewhere and get something to eat. It will be good to eat proper food again.”
“Truth,” Liu Mei said, and used an emphatic cough. “The Americans eat some very strange things indeed. Fried potatoes are not bad once you get used to them, but cheese-how do they eat cheese?”
“I don’t know.” Liu Han shuddered. “What else is it but rotten milk? They should throw it away or feed it to pigs.”
Shortly thereafter, she conceived the identical opinion of the Chinese customs officials who manned the Shanghai customs office for the little scaly devils. She had hoped-she had, in fact, been assured-officials who sympathized with the Party and the People’s Liberation Army would ease her passage back into China. Hopes and assurances or not, it didn’t happen. The customs men who dealt with her daughter and her might have been working for the Kuomintang, or they might have completely prostituted themselves to the little devils. Liu Han never was sure of that. She was sure they thought her false papers were false papers, no matter how artfully they’d been forged.
“Stupid women!” one of the customs men shouted. “We know who you are! You are Reds! Do not deny it. You cannot deceive us.”
Liu Mei said nothing. Her face stayed expressionless, as it usually did, but her eyes blazed. She got angry at being called a Red, even though she was one. When Liu Han had time, she would laugh about that. She didn’t have time now.
“We are the people our papers say we are,” she said, over and over and over again.
“You are liars!” the boss customs man said. “I will haul you up in front of the little scaly devils. Let us see you tell your lies to them. They will know your papers are as false as a dragon’s wings on a duck.”
The threat worried Liu Han to some degree: the little scaly devils might be able to tell the papers were false where human beings could not. Underestimating their technical skill was always dangerous. But they were disastrously bad at interrogation; next to them, the Americans were paragons. And so, with a sneer, Liu Han said, “Yes, take us to the little scaly devils. I can tell them the truth and hope they will listen.” She could tell them a pack of lies and hope they believed her.
But her willingness to go before them rocked the customs man, as she’d thought it would. To most Chinese, the little devils remained objects of superstitious dread. Surely no one with anything to hide would want to talk to them. The customs man took a somewhat more conciliatory tone: “If you are not the people we think you are, how is it that you come off the American ship?”