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The words “When a daughter, obey your father” ran through Hulan’s mind. Then she thought of Siang’s headstrong ways, her stubbornness, her sense of entitlement, and wondered which of the two—father or daughter—would win in this contest of wills.
With a grunt Tang Dan heaved himself to his feet. His legs bowed out under him. “Good night, Ling Suchee, Liu Hulan.”
“See you tomorrow,” Suchee responded.
As soon as Tang Dan left the courtyard, Suchee beckoned Hulan inside.
A few minutes later, Hulan sat at the small table in Suchee’s single room, sipping tea. Etiquette prevented Suchee from asking her guest what she was doing here this late at night, so she went back to an earlier chore of making shoes. Silently she took some paste made from flour and water and applied it to sheaf after sheaf of cut newspaper, taking pains to press the sheets together so that there were no bubbles or uneven areas. Wordlessly Hulan watched her friend, remembering back to the days of the Red Soil Farm and how she herself had spent long evenings making the papier mâché soles, then dying them red in a vat tinted with soil, and sewing on scraps of cloth to create the tops.
“I’ve told you about David,” Hulan said. Suchee nodded and continued her work. “Many years ago in America I left him with no explanation. It was cruel and unforgivable. All those years since that time I’ve been lonely. Of course, there were other men, but they meant nothing. Then, when David came back into my life, I wanted nothing more than for us to be together again. I thought we could be happy together, but I don’t think we can.”
“Because…”
“Because since he’s come here, I don’t know who I am,” she said. “I act one way, he acts another. He’s said terrible things.”
“What terrible things were those?”
“That the women in the factory are uneducated, that our country is corrupt, that the people who run the factory are honest…”
“Ah, so it is a political disagreement.”
“That, and he thinks he can treat me like a woman, like a taitai.”
“Don’t you want to be his wife?”
“It is a word that, like so many in our language, is a prison to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Mama, baba. Separate words for older brother and younger brother—gege and didi. Separate words for older sister and younger sister—jiejie and meimei. Yeye, nainai, bofu, shushu,” she rattled off the words for paternal grandfather, paternal grandmother, oldest paternal uncle and younger paternal uncle. “All these are different than the words for their maternal counterparts, and those words connote a lesser meaning because the female side is seen as unimportant.”
Suchee picked up another piece of newsprint, coated it with the paste, and pressed it to the growing sole. “You aren’t telling me anything I don’t know.”
“My whole life I’ve known exactly where I fit in the family tree. Even when I lived in America, I felt the pressure of that. No, not pressure, the weight, the sense that I could never truly be myself.”
“But our words are a comfort,” Suchee said, glancing up from her work. “They tell us who we are. They are what make us Chinese.”
“No, they are what keep us locked to the past,” Hulan countered. “When a daughter, obey your father; when a wife, obey your husband; when a widow, obey your son,” she said, completing the proverb she had thought of when talking to Tang Dan.
At this Suchee put down her work. Once again Hulan was struck by how much her friend had aged in this harsh environment. But Hulan was doing just what she had accused David and the taxi driver of doing, judging Suchee by her face. Behind the rough skin and tragic eyes, Suchee was as she’d always been—gentle, kind, and astute.
“It is sad, Hulan. You have not changed since you were a girl. You were always running away, even when you first came running to the countryside all those years ago.”
Hulan disagreed. “I was sent to the Red Soil Farm.”
“Yes, but even then you ran away from the truth of you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Suchee’s eyes narrowed as she appraised her girlhood friend; then she asked, “Do you want me to say this?”
Suddenly Hulan wasn’t sure, but Suchee went on. “Here is what I remember about you: Unlike most of the girls sent here, you were happy to be away from your family. Oh, you said you were lonely, but no one ever saw you cry, no one ever saw you write a letter. When they had struggle meetings, you spoke out the loudest and said the worst words. No one wanted you on their team, because at any time you could turn against an individual person or the entire group.”
“I know all this,” Hulan said. “I’m sorry for the things I did.”
“Are you sure? Because what I remember is that your words kept you safely alone.”
“You think I spouted those slogans and reported on people’s infractions because I didn’t want friends? You’re absolutely wrong.”
