China
Shanghai
The rain pours against the window in another dreadful Shanghai afternoon. The windows are streaked in a gray miasma of pounding rain. The storm is blown in off the sea. It's hard. Not quiet a typhoon, but in the quieter parts of the house the sound of the wind can be heard hissing in through the windows. It does not matter much. The staff is not frightened. This is not an emergency situation. This isn't the end of the world. It is just a shitty afternoon. In a city that is rarely if ever sunny, it is always overcast. If not then it is drizzling or misty and then it is raining. All the same in the windows the lights of the city in the rain can be seen as shimmering mirages and hazy dreams of another world. There is a spectral quality to them that makes them dream like. But more worthy of being real than anything else. They are the stars that long replaced the stars in the skies. They are the stars that shine when the sky is not clear, and they are more powerful when night has come to the city. But unless you leave the city, they are the only stars you will ever see. Not everyone is able to retire from the city to see the night and the stars in all its impenetrable purity, and most of those that could do not leave the city do not leave. So the lights are all the same their stars, raining afternoon or clear night.
From these windows the House of Wu would look out from across the river in the New City. Atop a hill made of the moved rubble from the war and covered over in dirt. Trees dotted the yard, small young saplings still, their roots digging deeper and deeper into the mild soil of the bulldozed clay, bricks, and bones underneath them. They were small enough still that they could be maintained in haphazard fantasy and trimmed by the staff of gardeners to transform into perfectly round green balls, or the shapes of animals. They were perfectly large banzais, not too large to be unmanageable, but not too small as to be ignored. They decorated a space of tiered levels, of flag stone courtyards and patios that lead into wine cellars and covered galleries and all the fine luxurious things that could boast their ancient generational wealth. There were in conspicuous locations in the house ancient relics displayed predominately in open spaces and at the edge of open portholes as if to show off to the city beyond; late Ming vases, Qing tea sets, encased swords and spears and more than a few portraits showing prestigious images of the family (which were and would be eventually: all of them) behind delicate crystal glass. From the position of these antiques, portraits, and proud treasures the garden of their yard could be surveyed. None of their yard was used for games, it was too good for that. Instead the garden was used to house a flock of peafowl that patrolled the far garden wall and shaded groves of the garden, making their crying wail songs and occasionally straying close to the house to threaten the antiques with their long tails and boisterous immaterial attitudes. They played games against the gardeners, venturing into the orchids and the bushes and threatening their very existence which was so much the pride of Lady Wu who thought them her children now that her children were all grown up, although she partook in the care of neither. There among the pretty pink, white and red blooms they dug at the soil searching for insects and digging up the rich black fertilizer the gardeners laid out, found roosts in the mulberry trees and guarded the tea bushes planted decoratively around the edges, preventing any old herbalist from coming near enough to trim the unruly shrubs that took a wild form through the presence of the fighting peacock. The ladies that made up the general staff were horrified of the birds, and the men wanted more to shoot them but could do little more than chase them away with a glove; if they so much as injured one they would lose their heads. Often the peafowl congregated around the dog house, because the Wus had no dogs. But it was the belief of the Master Wu that having a dog house made them seem more modern, more American, which he sought to bring into the family by having a dog house and posing as though he had a dog; was it ever around: no. There was also next to the dog house a koi pond, with it's small tasteful traditional garden was beginning to overflow in the rain, allowing the koi to swim over the white pebble walking paths that circled the pond, flowering bushes submerging in the dark cool waters as well as the stone bridge, a stone lantern that remained lit despite the storm, and part of the pavilion. On the far side of the yard, nearest the garage the walls were adorned with hop plants left to grow largely wild against their trellises and were thick and thicker still in the rain. But these were not used to brew anything but left to grow and wilt and grow again until they became a curtain of green that hid the many things dropped, lost, or willfully abandoned behind the thick foliage. The garage walls were dirty, a dull yellow ochor adobe vs the white brick and immaculate concrete of the house itself, a twisting combination of modernism vs tradition with smatterings of classic French baroque detailing. Further from it an experiment had been under taken to build a man made stream down the hill, but abandoned as quickly as it started when the ruins of the old city the house was built on was rediscovered, this was left to grow wild as the grounds keeper strategically keep everyone's distance from the area. The ground slowly collapsed, being over taken by weeds, wild bushes, and a dozen abandoned projects that fell into the mangle of bricks and hidden irons below.
“Crime! Foreigners! Communist rallies!” shouted Guan Yan-Fu inside the house. On a radio a song by the Shidaiqu performer Shu Xiu 'The Cherry Blossom Dance' played on a French made Radio-Electrique 300 series giving to the song a crisp sound. The radio sat on an Italian made end table cut from dark burnished oak, trimmed with gold lace designs besides velvet, burgundy upholstered arm chairs, imported from Canada at great expense. “This country is, I tell you: going to shit. There is trash in the streets, and the people are lower now than they were under the Qing barbarians. The finances are no longer in order, and an honest man can not make an honest earning.”
Guan Yan-Fu was of course not an honest man. Tall and slender with neatly trimmed hair combed back across his head he was from a model family that had entered banking in the late twenties as the southern gentry class was consolidated from their land holdings and usual mercantile interests in the decade's commercial shift. His blood was blue, and conceived through the as much the personal politicking of aristocratic families as the trade of young stocks and bonds emergent in the young republic. His family had managed a clever early transition and were able to dress the best and be the best of many peers around them. He had gone to fine schools and ascendant officer academies where he learned to stand buck straight and to pose at ever idle moment, to press his uniforms and his clothes, and speak in the proper dialect of Chinese and to long abandon his Yunanese voice. He had a rich diet, and was as round as anyone in his class. Complimented by the clearness of his skin, a traveler in new hygiene. “I was the other day in public and not a single person offered deference to me. They did not bow to me. They did not call me honorable, a sir, or a magnanimous teacher or any of the sort. And when I turn to the news I hear about all these awful things going on. This election, the socialist party. The communist party. Even the world is turning sour, with the communist invasion of Ukraine. I hope you agree with me, that this slaughter has to stop.”
Tang Wu could only sit and play at the gold watch on his wrist (purchased two years ago at a street market in Beijing, it was the only honest purchase he made, a Chinese watch from a Chinese maker but he claimed it was Italian). He knew his friend was right. But he had little to add. So he could only nod meekly.
“
Fan Gòngchǎn; fu Ming!” quoted Yu Chao, a second friend to Wu's and fellow graduate of the military academy, still dressed in his gray and white cadet uniform. He leaned forward in his chair, clutching his glass of lychee wine with tight fingers. His face bright with permanent tension. Permanently rosy in his cheeks, the alcohol would only make it soon worse. But until it dulled his senses, his eyes shone with a bright red energy. He seemed to twitch. A true rat of an individual. He would look insane when he becomes older. But now he is young, and is only over-eager. He wears a badge of distinction on his chest from the Whampoa military academy, he was fifth of his class. Wu was tenth.
“Yes, down with the communists!” Yan-Fu cheered encouragingly, “If only everyone could see it.”
“None are as sharp as we are.” chuckled Yu Chao, “But what say before we go to deployment, we join the Quomintag to try and keep the communists out of government, if they could seize it?” he asked, turning to Wu.
He looked up at him, puzzled, dazed. “Politics? What ever would I do in politics?”
“You? And your family's money? Well perhaps a lot can be turned. I know my parents donate substantially to the Quomintang.”
“So do mine.” Wu corrected, “We're not losers for patriotism.”
“Damn right.” Guan Fu-Yu cheered. Raising a toast of lychee himself. “We are a nation deserving of solid patriots.
“But hear this story also, I ask you.” Guan Fu-Yu continued, “It's something I just remembered. But a weak ago I was riding in my car on Chengshou road, having come from the Jade Buddha Temple and at an intersection we had just stopped at an old beggar approached the car and began immediately cleaning it. I was appalled at this: I have my own people clean and detail for me. How should this man approach my car? So I ordered my driver to roll down the window and accost the old man, to make him leave. And like a loyal servant who knows his duties and is pious he did so and ordered the old man to leave, we did not want his service. But the old codger did not leave us alone. He greeted my driver's demands by demanding money for services rendered! I shouted back from the rear that no, we would not pay. This was a service offered without request and he had broken the sacred contract. I said to him that had he wanted to wash my car and be paid for it he should have approached me first and asked and negotiated rates. So he said he was negotiating that right there. He was an awfully dumb sort. A true moron. You could see in his eyes. He was perhaps an alcoholic as all the poors are. Quiet tired looking, and missing teeth. And he stank. His stink got into the car. He fucking smelled terrible, pardon me. But he was a cesspit. But no, I was not going to have this. I told him to go away. It was the only thing I could do. None of this was wanted or warranted. Who knows what damage he did to my car. It was a one-million yuan Lincoln. It's very difficult to get Lincolns in this country. It's hard to get American cars in general. There's so many hoops to jump through. But if you must get an American car it has to be a Lincoln. They are smooth vehicles. They are the peak of their art. Wu, what car does your family have?”
“We have several.” Wu said.
“Then what cars do you have?”
“I have a- let's see...” he paused for a moment to think. He never paid much attention to them. They were a sedan chair to him. A means to get around. The garage would know, but it would not be good to call the garage. So he had to make it up. “I suppose a Hispano-Suiza, a Cadillac, and a Lincoln as well.”
“Ah good, I see: a fellow Lincoln man as well. Good taste.” the compliment made Wu feel good to himself and he leaned back smiling.
“You see, I have a Lincoln Zephyr-3 1939. It is somewhat old, but it is handy engineering. It is made with the best of lines. And the metal polishes well. I think it is something special the Americans do with the paint. It is fine work. Excellent craftsmanship. I idolize the Americans for the discipline they are able to enforce on their workers. Their managers must do wonderful work and it is a shame the socialists and the communists were able to block them from exporting directly to America. That was one of their many crimes in the forties.”
“Short of existing!” Chao said.
“Indeed my man. An esteemed gentleman. You earned your merits well.
“But you see: I had to import this car from the Russians two years ago. As I am told they had to purchase it from some Venezuelans. It came at a steep price for all the exporting and the importing. But I did this knowing that the Zephyr-3 was well worth the cost. You will not know a better car anywhere else in the world. It has a stunning reputation. It is used by warriors to put down enemies of the nation in its very streets. I am told a Venezuelan general owned it before and had the interior of the doors replaced with bullet proof material. So I would like to see these liberal mobs take me out in it!”
This was greeted with a shallow spell of laughs from the others.
“Yes, I am one with this legacy. And that is why I can not have any nobody from the street dealing with it.” he smiled to himself, nailing the landing, “But this ditch weed mongrel isn't going to let us be. When I notice the light has turned in our favor I order my driver to just go. Because this waste of breathable air is not relenting. He has me by the wrist. So the car goes and tears us free of him and the last I see is this heathen beggar and probably a catholic roll off my car and tumble in the streets behind us, stalling the traffic behind us! But it's all his fault, he should have never been there. I hope the police found him and took him off the streets. I swear there are camps in Xinjiang for this type of loafer. Maybe he will be sent there.”
“A catastrophic story!” said Yu Chao, “I have, I have one of my own!”
“Go ahead, tell it!”
“This is something I heard from a friend of mine, who is serving with the Northern Army! He told me a story of how the soldiers there neglect their professional duties. While they exercise and drill in the rural countryside they get drunk! Yes! Terrible. I do not think our soldiers should get drunk. Some even look for mushrooms. They've heard stories about these mushrooms the Russians eat to go crazy, or so it's told. So while they patrol, I guess, or they get time off they use this time to get high or hammered instead of practicing. They- they neglect themselves and no one is able to set them straight! If the government is too weak to discipline the regulars at the front, how can they protect the country? I am- I am committed to make this better.”
“Righteous cause!” Guan Fu-Yu cheered, “Yes, I've heard of many poor stories of lacking discipline about our men. I had to get out in a hurry, or I felt I would have to shame myself being there. It is unfortunate the two of you must. But our status demands it. Our patriotism forces our hand, because where the will of the nation lies to call on the best, so the best must call. But it's a shame our students further down do not follow our example. I wish we could make a national of gentlemen for us all. Where we do not get drunk.”
“Yes- yes, and stoned too! What's not to say some of them are doing worse. Having had to study so many battles, a soldier for sure must be at his sharpest to survive in the field. How- how did we defeat the Japanese? Were we sober? We must have been sober. Sober, yes. That is what we must have been. Sober and level headed. Do you see the pictures of the veterans of the noble war? They are sober and clear in their vision. They- they look you square in the eye through the photographs. They reached new heights of- of... of- consciousness or enlightenment to become alive even in their images! If they are killed today, I feel they will come back alive and well from their pictures in the newspapers and in the lists of graduates and veterans. The ones who died? They all seem to be smiling in their pictures. They were not captured when they had achieved their enlightened peaks!”
“What about Hou?” Tang Wu asked.
“Are you kidding? He has not reached any possible height to nirvana. He has not reached any divinity. He is an atheist. His soul is stunted, perhaps demonic. It weakens his spiritual nature. He will never stride out from his photo if he is killed. He, him, It will not grip the living!
Fan Gòngchǎn; fu Ming!”
“It is quiet the shame. And what about you, Wu? Do you have anything to add?” Fu-Yu asked. Coming to rest, dropping into an available chair. Reclining low into the cushion and crossing his legs with dignified ease.
“Well, I suppose I have a story to add.” Wu said, “It's fairly recent. My brother, sister, and myself were on our way back from the theater-”
“What did you see?” Chao interrupted.
“Attack Of The Western Vampire.”
“Oh great! I love that movie. How was it?”
“It was good.” Wu commented, rather indifferently, “But can I?”
“Yes- yes. Go ahead.” said Chao.
“We had left the movie and were on our way home. When we were held up in the street by a pack of untamed urban youth. That is how you might describe the type, you know, Fu-Yu?”
“Leather wearing, soft-bodied toughs? Women that look like men?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I know the type, yes.”
“Yes, so these delinquents cross the street and hold up our car. And begin accosting us for their crime of crossing through traffic. Our driver had a hell of a time with them. They were rather terrifying, and barbaric. A low type of people, untamed. I don't think they... learned of manners at all. Or how they're supposed to behave. And you're right: their women do dress and act like man and their men dress like the low criminals of America. The red types, you know. Not the proper ones. They are a blight on our country.”
“Indeed they are, I have to deal with them often. They loiter everywhere. If you don't call the police on them to bust their heads now and then they'll ruin everything eventually with their smoking and public drinking. They're dirty, industrial and in poor standing. The lot of them should be put in ghettos so the cities remain for those who rightly deserve them. China's global standing would vastly improve if we got rid of them! And perhaps being forced to live in filth would oblige them to uplift themselves and be proper members of society. And not Red factory trash either.”
“What is the future of China?” asked Chao
“That I can not say.” Fu-Yu responded with a resigned sigh, “If I had the power I would, as you've said, restore the Ming. But there is not one left alive from the House of Zhu. Or none that I know of. I do feel that after the Qing there are no esteemed houses left that might lead China.”
“If there are, we would have to call upon our enemies. There is the Japanese.” said Wu.
“No, we should never tolerate the thought of the House of Yamato. They are inferior to the Chinese legacy. They sprung from China, and should in the future be subject to China. They may call themselves emperors, but their place are as low kings!”
“We might have to start again.” said Chao, “But whom among us has the majesty to lead China into the future?”
Jing'an District
Through the window panes the vastness of Shanghai revealed itself in gloomy rain. In the protection of the balcony, a number of birds sought refuge from the summer rains. The song of a dozen sparrows could be heard through the screen door, occasionally they peered in with their brown bandit's masked face before being spooked at the slightest noise. In the park below the apartment the trees swayed in the storm as pedestrians walked by under the cover of black umbrellas. The solemn bell of a street car could be heard just below the drama of the storm and its yellow light arched across the rain darkened street, glistening red gold. Clear across the small park the other apartments in the neighborhood stood, their windows gleaming with the hundreds of lives playing out in the day.
Tsun sat at the kitchen table. He sat arched over a hot bowl of noodle soup, the broth steaming and smelling of sweet salt and shrimp and cilantro. A pile of mile sat off on the edge. The steam poured into his nose. He was suffering from a cold. It relieved the pressure in his nostrils as he breathed it in deep between great gulps of slick rice noodles held between his chopsticks. He savored each bite, the heat and the steam cleaning his sinuses and bringing his tongue back to life. Each time he added more chili. The flavor was not strong enough before. He needed more chili. It wasn't long until the broth was dark and red with the chili and he was satisfied at last. The cold had taken his taste. He needed to taste the chili. It cleared his head in this trying time.
His lived in a small apartment, sparsely furnished. His living room served as combination kitchen and dining hall, the toilet and shower hidden both in a cut-away in the corner, hidden by a curtain. A small bedroom, barely large enough for the bed itself off to the side. He had to walk side-ways just to get into bed. It was very fun for some of his guests that joined him at night. His closet was no deeper than his foot was long and was packed with his sparse clothes. A lime green cloth sofa rested against the wall, just within arm's reach of the balcony with the plastic furniture now full of birds. There was a little radio, now on to a local Shanghai popular music station; the song Marry Me by Judith Ai-Lynn, a migrant jazz performer from Hong Kong was playing; she mixed English with Cantonese in a very international style. In front of the sofa was an old coffee table, one part cardboard box with the storage under neath and one part home of the tea set and a copy of the Torah, a cat was also there laying reposed across a newspaper and several magazines; he rarely had time to read them – the cat was fine though.
He was not without his pictures and his artwork. His wall was a gallery of images. Here there was a black and white photograph of himself and friends, taken on a vacation trip to Hong Kong to meet college friends. There was a photo of his girlfriend in the studio, posing long and mean in a light dress that hung sultry off her shoulders. He had a picture of his brother in his army officer's uniform; taken outdoors at the foothills of the Tibetan steppe, he smiled broad and at ease with himself, arms crossed over crossed legs. His mother had supplied various drawings she had made of birds, buildings, the shoreline at home in Tianjin and a self portrait. And framed large on the wall, occupying a special place over the family altar in the corner of the room was a picture of his father; Hou Tsai Tang looking bright and optimistic, gazing at his wife next to him.
Hou Tsun held a special reserved sort of pride for his father. He would never announce it, but would scan the newspapers and the magazines for him. It was the only reason he paid attention to the news. The writing that many journalists made of him he often found funny, and would frequently cut them out and mail them to his parents as a trophy of just how far the writers missed the nail. And from his mother, Tsun had opted to inherit something more peculiar than his father could pass down: he inherited her religion.
His mother, being a Jew passed down to him and his siblings her own Jewishness and he came to move in much the same light. Though adopting Chinese custom of a family altar, he kept a strange altar: among the icons of his relatives there was also replacing the representation of the deities the effects of Judaism: the menorah, a second Torah, bits of text and images of select kings of Isreal and small postcard images of poets and radicals who also moved in the faith he admired. While he did not often eat kosher, he ate his unleavened bread and made a pass at the holidays and the rituals. He moved in close with the other Jewish expats who found their way to China. He attended a synagogue that was just a mile away from him. He learned not only English from his mother, but enough of Yiddish to pass but not nearly enough to be deeply intellectual, his Hebrew was scant. He sometimes wrote his family about how he would like to make a trip to the Holy Land to partake in that little bit of a thing he had inherited while also wondering about his relations in America.
Hou Tsun, who had also taken the name of David – Hou David Tsun – was therefore caught a drift between several worlds, though he could blend into a couple. It was for this reason he found himself far from the family seat in Tianjin, and as Hou Tang had before migrated south, pulled into the gravitational pull of Shanghai against all others. And Shanghai was full of displaced.
The effects of the soup finally had its effect he was hoping for on him and the pressure in the back of his sinuses lifted enough he figured he could think clearer. He reached for the mail and began going through it. Rent was due and he acknowledged that by simply casting the notice into the garbage; it never changed. And there were the other bills he organized in a pile off to the side; he'd delay these to the last possible moment as he often did. There was a letter from a friend of his who moved to Hong Kong in pursuit of acting and he opened it up and began to read it listlessly. He said he had made inroads, and was featuring in the background of several movies as a low played speaking bit; only a little better than an extra. But it was a start and he hoped to catch the eye of a director who would recruit him into his crew. For now he was one of those cut adrift in the large pool of 'unassociated talents' he called them. In the meantime, he was tending bar serving explicitly tourists, his Cantonese was not superb. But he had to hold high hopes and wished everyone well at home. Tsun smiled and put the letter down to start a new pile of correspondences to reply to as soon as possible.
He started on another which was from his sister writing to complain about domestic life. She had just married a couple years ago and for a time was optimistic to be a working wife, which was figured to be fashionable. “I will be devoted but independent!” she declared once. But clearly job prospects for married women were not well and could only find low paying work at part time hours and her husband was slowly becoming not very supportive. She wondered how this could be, and how mom could have gotten away with it. Tsun knew the answer for his younger sister and could compose the letter there and then if he could find his stationary: it was because she and their dad moved in much the same way. She ended up employed to him by a miracle.
There were other letters, not worth a response to. Offerings of extended family's best wishes to their nephew or uncle or cousin and so on and so forth. Friend's reaching out to ask about something or other; to schedule something of no admitted importance and could be delayed. These made a third pile which he had to remind himself he would just answer by phone whenever he was feeling better. They were close enough to the bills to get mixed in.
The last letter was from his mom. He tore open the envelope and began to read,
“Hi, darling,
“Your father and I will be in Shanghai in the coming weeks on a Party event and we'd like to ask you to come see us, Huang being in the serve and Liu occupied in Beijing. We know you're not that active, but it's been since last year we've seen one another and this would be your best chance. Tang is concluded his work on the dam surveying job and will be traveling again for the campaign, he's eager to see you.
“We'll be arriving by train and the visit is scheduled for the twentieth. If all goes well we should be in at 11:00. Personally, I would like to try the restaurant you described in your letter from last March. It sounded wonderful. Is it still open?
“It'll be exciting to see Shanghai again. It's been a long time since I've seen the city. How are the people? I hope your prospects are looking up, last you wrote you were looking for a club job and had found a few. How have they gone? Please write me.
“Love,
“Your mother.”
It was brief and to the point and Tsun added it to his “respond to” pile and finished his soup. He rubbed at his face to message the weariness from his eyes and breathed one last deep breath in before he knew his sinuses would again close with a vengeance. He would have to soon break down the gates of his air waves with raw chili peppers soon, or go live in a warm shower for the rest of the day. He sniffled feeling the first inch of mud rising to close off his nose already. There was no way for him to carry on or even afford his two remedies and he swore bitterly to himself.
He did think about his new performing gig however. It had gotten it, and fortunately for him it wouldn't start until next weekend. The patron of the club considered himself a 'socialist' and when Tsun had complained to him about feel unwell he said he understood and could fill the space in the meantime. It was a small joint, fairly underground, catering to the already artistic scene of the city. It was by no means a big band gig for a cabaret or dance club but it would do. It would do indeed.
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