Chinese Whispers

III

It had been an awkward half hour. Both Margaret and Li’s father had paid lip service to the thought that Li might turn up any at moment. But neither really believed it. The old man had sat in the apartment with his coat and hat on, a fur hat with fold-up earmuffs pulled down over thin, grey hair, his gloves folded neatly on his knees. He had spent all of five minutes half-heartedly bouncing Li Jon on them before becoming bored with the child and handing him back to Margaret. He had accepted an offer of tea, taken two sips and then left it to grow cold on a low table beside the settee.

Margaret knew that he disapproved of her. That he would have preferred a Chinese girl to have been the mother of his grandson. Just one more grudge to bear his son. And so she had made no attempt to engage him in conversation. Neither of them considered it worth making the effort.

Finally she stood up. ‘Normally I take Li Jon out for a walk at this time. In his buggy. You’re welcome to join us if you want. Or you can wait here in case Li Yan arrives.’ She was determined not to sit on in this atmosphere. To her disappointment he stood up, almost eagerly, clutching his gloves.

‘I will come with you.’

A girl carved in pewter played a Chinese zither. Another, chiselled from white marble, sat reading a book in the dappled shade of the trees. There were occasional small squares set off the path through the gardens which separated the two sides of Zhengyi Road. Old men in baseball caps sat smoking on the benches that lined them. An old woman in a quilted purple jacket sat gazing into space, her bobbed hair the colour of brushed steel. Couples strolled arm in arm, mothers with children, school kids with pink jackets and jogpants.

Margaret pushed Li’s buggy north at a leisurely rate, wind rustling the leaves overhead. The buggy was blue, punctuated by the odd coloured square, and had small yellow wheels. There was a support for his feet, and a plastic tray in front of him for toys. A hood, folded away now, could extend from back to front if it rained. A bag which hung from the back of the pushbar, and a tray under the seat, held extra clothes and toys and a flask of warm milk if it was needed. This was a walk she had taken often in the last few months. An escape from the apartment, and in the cold autumn air a chance to breathe again after the suffocating heat of the summer. But now she resented the silent presence of Li’s father as they headed towards the traffic on Changan Avenue.

‘Why do you bother?’ she said eventually and turned to look at him.

He kept his eyes straight ahead. He was not a stupid man. He knew what she meant. ‘Because he is family,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Margaret said. ‘He’s your son. And yet you treat him as if somehow everything bad that’s ever happened in your life is his fault.’

‘He must bear responsibility for his shortcomings. He has been less than diligent in his filial responsibilities.’

‘And maybe you haven’t been such a good father.’ He flicked her a glance. ‘You were so obsessed with the loss of your wife, you forgot that your son had lost his mother. If ever a boy needed his father, it was then. But, no, you couldn’t see past yourself, past your own hurt. You couldn’t reach out to a kid who was hurting just as badly, maybe worse.’

‘What would you know about it?’ he said defensively.

‘I know what Li has told me. What happened, what he felt. Things he probably hasn’t told another living being. Certainly not you. And I know that the Cultural Revolution wasn’t his fault. That it wasn’t his fault his mother was persecuted for being an intellectual. He didn’t invent the Red Guards. He wasn’t even old enough to be one.’

‘You know nothing of these things. You are an American.’

‘I’m an American who has spent most of the last five years in China. I have talked to a lot of people, listened to their stories, read a great many books. In fact,’ she added bitterly, ‘I haven’t had much else to do with my life this last year, raising your grandson. I think I know a little about what the Cultural Revolution was, what it meant to those who survived it. And those who didn’t.’

The old man held his own counsel for several minutes as they reached the top of the road and turned west towards the ramp to the underground walkway. As they passed into the darkness of the tunnel beneath Changan Avenue he said, ‘In China we treasure a son, because it is his duty to look after us in our old age. He and his wife, and their children, will look after his parents when they can no longer look after themselves.’ His voice echoed back at them off the roof and the walls.

‘Yeah,’ Margaret said unsympathetically. ‘That’s why the orphanages are full of little girls, dumped by their parents, abandoned on doorsteps. Great system.’

‘I did not invent the One Child Policy,’ Li’s father said bitterly. ‘I only thank God I had a daughter before they thought of it. She, at least, has taken her responsibility to her father seriously.’

Margaret forced herself to remain silent. Xiao Ling, she knew, had been anything but the dutiful daughter.

‘But Li Yan? The moment he is old enough, he is off to Beijing to live with his Uncle Yifu and train to be the great policeman. Never a second thought for the family he left behind in Sichuan.’

They emerged into the bright sunlight on the north side of Changan, and a shady path led off towards Tiananmen, the trees that hid it from the road casting their long shadows against the high red wall that bounded the gardens outside the Forbidden City. Margaret bumped the buggy into Nanheyan Street and swung hard left into the gardens. Anger forced her to break her silence.

‘That’s what really sticks in your craw, isn’t it? That he came to live with his Uncle Yifu. Your brother. Who was more of a father to him than you ever were.’ She barely stopped to draw breath. ‘And don’t give me that crap about how Li Yan was responsible for his uncle’s death. We both know that isn’t true. Even if he still feels guilty about it. But you never fail to play the guilt card, do you. Never miss a chance to turn the knife in all his emotional wounds. Because you know it works every time. I think you must take pleasure in his pain.’

It was out now. She’d said it all, and there was no taking it back. Before them, the old moat wound its way through the remodelled gardens to a tall, arched bridge in white marble beside a pavilion where water tumbled down over moulded rock. Beyond it, the Gate of Heavenly Peace rose in red-tiled tiers into the sky. It was sheltered here, and barely a ripple broke the surface reflection of the willow trees overhanging the water. People strolled along the paths on both sides of the moat, unhurried, drinking in the peace and quiet of this oasis of tranquillity in the very heart of the city.

Margaret and Li’s father walked in silence with the buggy, then, Li Jon fast asleep, head tipped to one side, oblivious of the tension between his mother and his grandfather. Margaret looked at her child. Round, chubby cheeks, rosy in the cold. Slanted eyes shut tight, lids fluttering slightly, rapid eye movement behind them reflecting some dream that she would never know and he would not remember. And it struck her with a sudden jolt, that her son shared her genes with those of his grandfather. These two adults, at loggerheads with each other, had come together over thousands of miles and millions of years in the living, breathing form of this tiny child. She felt immediate regret at the harshness of her words and turned towards Li’s father with an apology forming on her lips. But it never came, halted by the shock of seeing the tears that streaked the old man’s face.

‘I have never meant to cause him pain,’ he said, and he turned to meet Margaret’s eye. ‘He is my son. His mother’s child. I love him with all my heart.’

She was filled with confusion and consternation. ‘Then why …?’

He raised a hand to stop her question and took out a handkerchief to wipe his face. ‘There is not much of me in Li Yan,’ he said finally. ‘Not that I can find. But he is the image of his mother. I see her in everything about him, in everything he does. In his eyes and his smile, in his long-fingered hands. In his stubbornness and his determination.’ He paused to draw breath, and fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘He thinks that somehow I blame him for her death.’ He shook his head. ‘I never did. But when he left, to come to Beijing, it was like losing her all over again. He was everything I had left of her, and he took that away from me.’ He blinked hard to stop the tears falling from beneath the tangle of white fuse wire that grew from his brows. He put a hand on the push arm of the buggy to steady himself, and she saw the brown spots of age spattered across the crepe-like skin on the back of it. He seemed shrunken, smaller somehow, drowned by his big brown duffle coat, and clothes that hung so loosely on his tiny frame that they only fitted where they touched.

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered, realising for the first time that the pain he had inflicted on his son was only a reflection of the pain he felt himself. But only because he had never expressed it, at least not to Li Yan. Not in that way. ‘You have to tell him,’ she said. ‘You need to talk. Both of you.’

‘I have never spoken of these things to a living soul,’ he said. He looked at Margaret. ‘But, then, neither have I spilled tears in public.’ He drew breath. ‘The Tao teaches us that agitation within robs one of reflection and clarity of vision. In this state of mind it is impossible to act with presence of mind. So the right thing is to keep still until balance is regained.’ He waggled his head sadly. ‘I have never stopped to think beyond my own pain. Until now. Never stopped to reflect, and regain my balance.’ Something like a smile creased his face. ‘Harsh words sometimes carry hard truths, and make one stop to reflect.’

Margaret could not think of a single thing to say. She put a hand over his, and felt the cold in it. ‘You should be wearing your gloves,’ she said. But he only nodded. They had reached the bridge, and Margaret said, ‘Could you lift one end of the buggy? He always wakens when I have to bump him up the steps.’

‘Of course.’ He wiped his face again, and blew his nose, and stooped to lift the foot of the buggy. And together they carried the child that bound them across the steep arch of this ancient bridge to the other side of the moat.

‘You push him,’ she said, when they got to the other side. And as they walked in silence together towards the pond where golden carp swam around a copper fountain, she slipped her arm through his.