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Until the last decade of the twentieth century, a Beijinger could cross the city without ever leaving a hutong neighborhood. But in the year that David Stark traveled to Beijing, land in the city commanded as much as $560 a square foot; the hutongs suddenly seemed obsolete. Hundreds, thousands of old courtyard homes were marked in stark white paint with the Chinese character denoting “to be demolished.” At least two-thirds of the old neighborhoods were to be razed to make room for high-rise apartment buildings. Families—who, of course, don’t have titles to their land—were packed up, issued new residency permits, and sent to live in high-rises on the outskirts of the burgeoning city. Far from being unhappy at losing their homes, most residents were delighted to leave the crowded neighborhoods, the dilapidated conditions, the primitive facilities.
By the turn of the century, according to Beijing’s aggressive urban planners, only three hutong neighborhoods will have escaped demolition. Two of these lie to the east of the imperial lakes of Shisha and Bei Hai. The other is just west of the Forbidden City and the Zhongnanhai compound, where Communist leaders live. Liu Hulan lived in her mother’s ancestral home—a traditional courtyard compound nestled securely in the hutong near Shisha Lake.
The compound had been in Hulan’s mother’s family for many centuries. The Jiang family had been blessed with generation upon generation of royal performers—acrobats, puppeteers, singers of Peking Opera. But after the Manchus’ fall, the family found itself in reduced circumstances. Hulan’s mother, Jiang Jinli—young, beautiful, talented—eventually ran away to join the revolution. In the countryside, she learned peasant songs and dances; in exchange, she taught the peasants songs of the revolution.
By the time she returned to Beijing with Mao and his troops in 1949, her family had either escaped from the country, disappeared into an outlying province, or been killed. But Jinli had no regrets. She was well on her way to making a new family with a good revolutionary background. Her husband, who was handsome, young, and brave in battle, had also turned his back on his family. The Party forgave the two their pasts but didn’t forget them. Therefore, they assigned Hulan’s father to the Ministry of Culture. The Party decided that the best place for the newly married couple would be in the old Jiang family compound, since that of the Lius had been destroyed. Here, Jiang Jinli would serve as a living lesson to her neighbors. Even with the most bourgeois background, a person in the new China could be rehabilitated through hard work and devotion to the revolution.
Hulan was the only one who lived here now. After the travails of the Cultural Revolution, her mother and father moved into an apartment. “Too many bad memories,” her father had said when Hulan returned from California. She tried to live with her parents, but within weeks she went back to her true home. Her arrival caused the Neighborhood Committee director to call a meeting to discuss the Lius’ history. Soon after, several families who had squatted in the house during the Lius’ protracted absence hastened for more politically correct quarters.
What was now called the Liu compound had been built according to old Chinese ideals. The exterior was humble, giving no hint of the wealth or prominence of those who lived behind its gray walls. The roof was composed of a gentle slate-colored tile that curved up delicately at the edges. Inside the exterior walls were several buildings—originally intended for different family groupings—each connected by small courtyards, colonnades, and pavilions. At this time of year the gardens languished; withered and stark from frost, snow, and bitter wind. But in spring and summer, the wisteria and pots of flowers would bloom in the dappled shade created by a canopy of jujube, willow, and poplar. In the corner near the old outdoor kitchen, the fleshy fruit of a persimmon would ripen.
The only thing that differentiated this compound from others in the neighborhood was the decoration over the front gate. Most homes had carved stonework—some centuries old—with symbols designating class and trade. Many had traditional sayings over the front gates: “Hail jewel in the lotus,” “Happiness coming in the gate,” “Ten thousand blessings,” “A tree ha
s its roots.” In the old days, the saying above the Jiang compound had been a Confucian couplet about the harmony of family relationships and prosperity. (The memory of the night that piece of stonework was smashed to jagged bits was never far from Hulan’s consciousness.) In the Liu family’s absence, the squatters had chipped in for a new tablet—“Long Live Chairman Mao.” Hulan had never bothered to take it down.
So much had changed in the compound since Hulan left it for the first time in 1970 to go with others her age to the countryside to “learn from the peasants.” Two years later she returned to the city for two days. She had been in her old home just long enough to do her duty, pack a few mementos, and watch as many of her family’s treasures were destroyed or confiscated. When Hulan returned to China in 1985, she found that the rest of her family’s belongings had been ruined or sold. All that had survived inside to remind her of the house’s former beauty were two intricately carved Ming dynasty screens that created the pattern of two Foo dogs over the windows.
Upon her arrival, one of her first errands was to go to the government and ask that the confiscated goods be returned. After months of repeated visits, she’d finally been handed a few crates. Opening them, she found her mother’s clothes—her costumes, her day dresses, her exquisite evening wear—a few photographs, some miniature portraits of relations painted centuries ago on glass, and two ancestor scrolls. Since then, Hulan had combed the city’s antiques and junk shops looking to replace what had been lost. Now the simple, clean lines of Ming furniture and the delicate beauty of porcelains decorated the house.
This morning, as Hulan threw some coal into the kitchen and living room stoves, prepared a pot of chrysanthemum tea, and set out a little plate of salted plums, she could hear the hutong coming to life. Just over the back wall of the compound the muted voices of the Qin family could be heard as they went about their morning routine. Hulan could imagine Mrs. Qin, with her baby thrown carelessly over her shoulder, stirring the pot of congee, rice gruel, while Mr. Qin chopped slivers of pickled turnip for flavoring.
Hulan could practically tell the time and day of the week by the routine of the peddlers who passed through the hutong. The first voice she heard each morning was the bean-curd peddler’s as he made his early rounds. By the time she was ready for work, the prune-juice seller would have gone home with his jugs empty and his pockets jangling with coins. On certain days, the needle and thread salesman would visit, singing the praises of his wares in his nasal twang. Once a month, the knife and scissors sharpener would set up a temporary shop—really no more than a blanket, a satchel, and several honing blades.
Just as Hulan could mark time by the movements of these peddlers, she could also predict the arrival of the local busybody, Neighborhood Committee Director Zhang Junying, whose business it was to watch everyone in this honeycomb of compounds. Hulan heard the gate creak open just as the tea reached its full fragrant strength.
Zhang Junying’s hair was thinning and dyed an almost purple black. She kept it in a tidy bun held in place by a black hair net at the nape of her neck. She was short, plump, and waddled when she walked. Zhang Junying settled her ample grandmotherly form into a chair and reached for a salted plum. She popped the sour morsel in her mouth, then got to the purpose of her visit. “Inspector Liu, I have noticed your absence more than usual.”
“Don’t worry, auntie. I have been working.”
“You’re always working! What else is new? But this new case…”
“Don’t let them scare you, auntie.”
The old woman frowned. “They say, ‘You watch out for Inspector Liu. She will be working with a foreign devil. You watch for any changes.’”
“You shouldn’t tell me this.”
“Your family, my family, we have been neighbors for many generations,” Zhang Junying cackled. “You think I care what those people tell me?”
“You’re the one who needs to be careful,” Hulan teased.
“I’ll never get caught in a changing tide,” she countered, and Hulan, who had known this woman all her life, knew she was right.
“Thank you for warning me,” Hulan said lightly.
The old woman turned serious again. She took a noisy sip of tea to show her appreciation and approval of the drink. She set the cup down, then clapped her hands to her widespread knees. “You do not have to work so many long hours,” she stated, and Hulan knew that while Madame Zhang appeared to be staying on the same subject, the conversation had taken a subtle, inevitable turn.
“I do what my superiors tell me to do,” Hulan replied.
Zhang Junying’s wizened face crinkled. “What do old men know about young women? Pretty soon, you are too old to have children. No one will marry you then.”
“Maybe I don’t want to marry…”
“Aiya! You always were a stupid girl!”
“Too stupid to be a good wife. This is true.”
“This is a problem,” the old woman agreed, then brightened. “I know what! You know the Kwok family? They are an old family. They have a son. Forty-five years old.”
