Yinghong had kept an enlarged photo of her mother in middle age. A black-and-white photo, taken by her father, of course, it was a foot high, and hand-colored, a substitute before color photo was invented. Vermillion lips, black eyes and brows; all clearly marked. Her hair, in tiny curls combed back to the sides, gave her a bewitching look. Father had added pink to her cheeks to represent rouge, while the smudges of blue and green were eye shadow, which he had copied from photos of movies stars.
Many years later, when she rushed back from America to Lotus Garden for Father’s funeral, Mother’s face looked just like that hand-colored, but faded photo; her features remained the same, just suddenly decades older.
After the funeral, Yinghong’s two brothers had to leave the country immediately, for their visas to Taiwan, obtained through special channels, would not permit them to stay long. They had to leave before the postfuneral seven-day rites were performed.
On the night before they left Lotus Garden, Mother took an old account book out of a drawer of a craftsman’s desk from an upstairs room in Lotus Tower. It had been put away with care, but still looked tattered; the original cobalt blue cover had faded to a dark gray. Her mother’s graceful handwriting in ink, recording in Japanese the dates and places of transactions of every piece of family property, graced the red-lined cotton paper.
“Your father was not a spendthrift even in his youth,” Mother began slowly in Japanese, obviously prepared for this conversation.
“In high school, young men his age from wealthy families began to frequent the red-light district, on the pretext that they were there to compose poetry, an elegant act of social life. But your father never had any of the bad habits that commonly afflicted the wealthy young, nor did he consider such degenerate behavior the norm.”
Mother looked far and deep into the distance.
“When I married into the Zhu family, your father had just returned from travels in Europe after finishing his studies in Japan; he took over the Zhu family business, while devoting himself to perfecting the first modern high school, which the Zhu family had established, with the intention of promoting cultural activities and waking up the Taiwanese to resist foreign rule. Then the incident occurred.”
Mother paused briefly, highlighting the sound of the late-autumn gale howling in Lotus Garden. Cold wind seeped in through the latticed windows, gently tousling her gray hair.
She was sitting up straight on a purple sandalwood armchair in the small second-floor parlor. A tall woman, she maintained the usual pose of holding her body away from the back of the chair and placing her feet close together on the octagonal floor tiles. She was wearing a black two-piece dress, a jacket with old-fashioned upturned collars, and a skirt that fell below her knees. Yinghong had never seen her mother in a qipao or Taiwanese-style pantsuit. In her memory, that black dress came with a hat in the same color, but Mother was not wearing it that night.
“I thought I’d never see your father again, but he returned. Even though he was more or less a prisoner in Lotus Garden, at least he was back home.” Mother took a deep breath. “After the incident, I had to take over everything in the house. When he was in prison, everyone in the clan, convinced that he would never come out, wanted to divide up the family property. At the time, cutting off all ties with us was the best method for self-preservation, and I never begrudged them that.”
Her voice sounded neutral, far-reaching, as if narrating someone else’s story.
“As the first grandson of the first son, your father was given the most worthless and remote property, land that was only good for a garden, not suitable for farming. The good rice fields and houses in the city were all taken by your uncles. Except that no one could have predicted that a few years later, when the policy of Land to the Tillers was implemented, most of the dozens of jia of rice paddies they’d gotten would be appropriated. And us, we were not only able to keep our land, but it turned out to be in the heart of the city, when city planning began, new roads were paved, and new zoning laws were applied.”
The flicker of a serene smile flashed across Mother’s old, sallow face.
“It’s ironic when you think about it. The regime ruined your father’s life, but their policies, right or wrong, brought him new wealth.”
With a subtle gesture, she stopped her children from objecting to her interpretation of the turn of events.
“I came from a merchant’s family. Your maternal grandfather and uncles had foresight, and with their help, I learned to manage the land, property, and houses. I helped keep the family going on your father’s behalf so as not to add to his worries. And he could send you to study abroad when you were young. He was free to do what he wanted.”
Mother slowly stood up and turned to open a large, partioned armoire also made of purple sandalwood. Cameras and lenses filled all the spaces, ranging from early German models to recent ones from Japan, and all by renowned manufacturers.
“There are two hundred and thirty-two cameras in here. If you count the lenses alone, including those on cameras, there are two hundred and fifty-four.”
Yinghong nearly cried out in surprise at the sight of more than two hundred cameras, stored in an armoire that clearly had been made to Father’s specifications. The single piece of furniture took up a whole wall, and every space was crammed full with cameras and lenses. A coat of ash-white dust lay on the black metallic cameras. With so many types and models, they looked less like the cameras she was used to and more like ill-defined contraptions. Gathered in such numbers, they seemed to deconstruct the commonly accepted image of cameras, and had become strange and unrecognizable.
She went up to look for the Linhof she’d used, as well as Father’s favorite Leica M3 with its 50mm, 90mm, and 135mm lenses, but it was a fruitless attempt, as she found it impossible to tell one from another.
Closing the doors, Mother next led them to an inner room on the second floor of Lotus Tower, where strewn atop the cupboard, chest, and an old-style carved bed were all sorts of stereo equipment, from early hand-cranked models to models of 78 and 33⅓ revolutions, plus various types of speakers, turntables, and amplifiers.
“There are five turntables, seven sets of speakers, and three sets of amplifiers, plus thirty-seven of the early all-in-one stereo systems.”
The speakers were all roughly four to five feet tall, crowding the corners in sets of two, on top of which rested turntables and amplifiers. Some of the all-in-one systems were in boxes piled high; others had extended speakers and had been placed on the floor, lined up from the bed to the door.
Mother took up all the unused space, so the three children had to stay outside and crane their necks to look in.
She pushed open the long, latticed south-facing windows; the walkway lights were still on, dimly illuminating the two cars parked neatly in Lotus Garden.
“There are also the two Mercedes, one from 1953, and the other a later model, with aerodynamic lines.”
She then closed the window and turned around, a contented smile on her face to show she was pleased to have accomplished her task.
“I’m pleased that, until the day he died, your father was able to have everything he ever wanted and never had to worry.”
Now she turned to face her three children.
“At first I sold off the dowry that my parents had given me, but the money quickly ran out, so little by little I sold every piece of Zhu family property.”
Placing her hands together in front of her, she bent deeply and gave her three children a Japanese-style, 90-degree bow.
“I’m very sorry.”