Frog (31 page)

Sensei, my soul received a solemn baptism that day as I sat beneath the signboard etched with those hundreds of children’s photographs. All my doubts, wavering, torment, beatings, humiliation, and being pursued were necessary steps in the process. Like the Tang monk Tripitaka, who encountered eighty-one trials on his trip to India for the Buddhist scriptures. A tortuous path leads to Nirvana; tribulations are essential for an understanding of life.

Back home I cleaned my wounds with alcohol and cotton swabs and drank some Yunnan powder steeped in liquor, which is particularly effective for bruises. The physical pain did not go away immediately, but my spirits were high. When Little Lion walked in the door I threw my arms around her and brushed her cheek with mine. Wife of mine, I said, thank you for creating my child. He has been nurtured not in your womb but in your heart. He is our very own child.

She wept.

Sensei, as I sit at my desk writing this letter to you I am pondering how I will raise this child. We are both nearly sixty, our bodies have begun their decline, and we should be looking for a nanny, someone experienced in the raising of a child, or a wet nurse, so that our child will taste mother’s milk. My mother once said that a child raised on cow’s or goat’s milk lacks the smell of mother’s milk. A child that grows and develops on cow’s milk will be vulnerable to many dangers, and I wonder if the unprincipled merchants will actually stop their ‘chemistry’ experiments in the wake of the ‘empty formula’ and ‘melamine formula’ affairs. After the ‘big-headed babies’ and ‘stone babies,’ who knows what kind of babies will come next? Those people are now fleeing with their tails between their legs, like beaten dogs, trying to look as pitiful as possible. But before too many years have passed, their tails will be up in the air again, and they’ll be concocting even worse formulas that will wreak damage on people. I know that mother’s milk is the most precious liquid the world has to offer. The first lactated milk, known as colostrum, contains mysterious elements that, when distilled, are in essence a mother’s love. I have heard of cases where parents have paid large sums of money to their surrogate mothers to purchase colostrum, and some have gone so far as to pay the surrogate to nurse the infant for its first month before taking it home with them. This is expensive, of course. Little Lion told me that the surrogate mothers company would not permit that. According to them, when a woman nurses an infant for a month, she develops an attachment to the child that creates serious problems.

Little Lion’s eyes lit up as she said to me:

I’m his mother, and I’ll produce milk for him!

Mother had told me stories about such things, but they seemed too far-fetched to believe. Maybe, I thought, a young woman who had previously borne and nursed a child might begin lactating again with the stimulation of a child’s mouth and a heart filled with love, but no such miracle would visit Little Lion, a woman nearly sixty who had never been pregnant. If it did, it would be on a level beyond ‘miracle’.

Sensei, I feel no sense of shame in writing about such things to you, a father who took a child the hospital told you had no chance of surviving and raised him. During that process you experienced many similar miracles. So I’m sure you know what I was feeling and have an appreciation for my wife’s abnormal behaviour. Lately she’s wanted to make love every night. She has gone from being a dried-up turnip to a honey peach, and this in itself is almost a miracle. I couldn’t be happier. She reminds me each time: Tadpole, be gentle, take it easy, you don’t want to injure our son. After we finish, she takes my hand and rests it on her belly. Can you feel it? He’s kicking me. She washes her breasts every morning with warm water and gently tugs on her sunken nipples.

When we told my father that she was pregnant, ancient tears rolled down his ninety-year-old cheeks and his beard quivered.

Heaven has eyes, he said emotionally. Our ancestors have revealed themselves. The good shall be rewarded, Amita Buddha!

Sensei, we’ve made all the preparations for the baby, the best that money can buy. A Japanese stroller, a Korean crib, Shanghai disposable nappies, a Russian rubber infant’s bathtub . . . Little Lion will not allow nursing bottles in the house. What if you don’t have enough milk? I asked her. We should have one just in case. So we bought French bottles and some milk formula imported from New Zealand. But we weren’t convinced that New Zealand formula was safe enough, so I suggested that we buy a milk goat and pasture it at my father’s place. We could move into Father’s house and feed our precious infant freshly squeezed milk every day. Cupping her breasts in her hands, Little Lion said unhappily:

I firmly believe that these could produce fountains of milk!

Our daughter phoned us from Spain and asked what we were doing to keep so busy. Yanyan, I said, I’m really sorry, but I have wonderful news. Your mother is pregnant. You’re going to have a baby brother very soon. That was greeted with a moment of silence. Is that true, Papa? she asked. Of course it is, I said. But how old is Mama? she asked. Go online and you’ll see that a sixty-two-year-old Danish woman just gave birth to a healthy pair of twins. My daughter was thrilled. That’s wonderful! she said. Papa, congratulations to you both, hearty congratulations! Tell me what you need and I’ll send it right away. We don’t need anything, I said. We have everything we need. I don’t care, my daughter said, I’m going to send you something, a gift from the heart of a big sister. Congratulations, Papa. A thousand-year-old sago palm has flowered, a ten-thousand-year-old dead branch has sprouted. You have created a miracle!

Sensei, I’ve always thought I owed a debt to my daughter, since I played a role in the death of her mother. Renmei died way before her time because of my concern over my so-called future, and the child she was carrying died with her. He’d be in his twenties now. No matter how I look at it, another son on the way is a comfort to me. In reality, this son will be that one. He’ll just come twenty-odd years late. But he is coming.

I’m ashamed to tell you, Sensei, that my play won’t be written till later. A bawling baby is much more important than a play. Maybe this is a good thing, because my thoughts up till now have been dark, have carried the stench of blood, are all about death and destruction, not life, despair not hope, and a play like that could only poison the viewers’ souls, and that would make my offence even greater. Don’t lose faith in me, Sensei. I will write that play. After my child is born, I’ll pick up my pen and offer praise to the new life. I won’t disappoint you, Sensei.

I went with Little Lion to see Gugu. It was a beautiful, sunlit day. Flowers were blooming on the scholar trees in her yard, while some had already fallen to the ground. Gugu was sitting beneath one of the trees, her eyes shut. She was muttering something. Flowers covered her thick, messy grey hair, around which bees were circling. Hao Dashou was seated on a stool in front of a limestone bench beneath the window. Given the title of county folk artist, he was moulding a lump of clay. He had a distant look in his eyes, almost trancelike.

This child’s father has a round face, Gugu was saying, long, narrow eyes, a flat nose, thick lips and fat ears; his mother has a thin, oval face, almond-pit eyes with double folds, a small mouth, high nose bridge, and thin ears with no lobes. The child would take after his mother, but with a larger mouth, slightly thicker lips, bigger ears, and a nose bridge slightly lower . . .

As Gugu muttered her description, a clay doll took shape in Uncle’s hands. After forming eyebrows with a pointed bamboo strip, he pulled back to take a look, made a few changes, then placed it on a plank in front of her.

Gugu picked it up, studied it, and said:

Make the eyes a little larger and thicken the lips.

He took it from her, made the changes and handed it back. His eyes lit up like lightning beneath his bushy grey brows.

With the doll in her hands Gugu held her arms out for a distant look, then brought them in close; a look of kindness spread across her face. Yes, that’s it, she said, that’s him. But then her tone changed as she spoke directly to the doll: This is you, you little sprite, you little debtor. Gugu destroyed two thousand eight hundred foetuses, and you’re the last. With you, we have them all.

I laid a bottle of Wuliangye on the windowsill, Little Lion laid a box of sweets next to Gugu. Gugu, we said together, we’ve come to see you.

Like someone who has been caught making contraband, she was startled and jittery. She tried covering the doll with her sleeve, but couldn’t manage. Then she stopped trying. I can’t hide anything from you, she said.

Gugu, I said, we’ve watched the documentary Wang Gan sent us, and now we understand you and know what’s in your heart.

I’m glad, she said as she stood up and carried the newest clay doll over to the eastern side rooms. Without turning around, she said, Follow me. Her large, shapeless figure in black created a mysterious tension in us. Father had said she hadn’t been acting quite normal, so we’d seldom been to see her since our return. It was heartbreaking to see what a sad figure she’d become after the renown and influence she’d enjoyed as a younger woman.

A dank chill assailed our noses in the dim light of the building. Gugu pulled the chain on a hundred-watt bulb near the wall, bringing the room into sharp focus. Every window in the three rooms was bricked up. Latticed wooden racks fronted the eastern, southern, and northern walls, each little square occupied by a clay doll.

Gugu placed the doll in her hands into the last square on the wall, then stepped back, lit three sticks of incense on an altar in the centre of the room, fell to her knees, brought her palms together, and muttered prayerfully.

We hastily joined her on our knees, though I didn’t know what I should be praying for. The lively images of the children on the signboard in front of the Sino-American Jiabao Women and Children’s Hospital scrolled through my mind like a peepshow. I was feeling immense gratitude, shame and remorse, and fine threads of terror. I knew that by employing her husband’s talents, Gugu was bringing to life all the children she’d stopped from being born. I guessed that was her way to assuage deep-seated feelings of guilt, and there was nothing wrong with that. If she hadn’t done it, someone else would have. The men and women who defied the policy against multiple pregnancies could not escape a share of the responsibility for what happened. And if no one had done what she did, it is truly hard to say what China might be like today.

Her devotion completed, Gugu stood up and said, with a broad smile, Xiaopao, Little Lion, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve fulfilled my desire. Take a good look around you. Every one of these children has a name. I’ve brought them all together here where they can accept my offerings. Once they have reached spiritual attainment they can leave for wherever they are fated to be reborn. Gugu led us past each of the squares and told us where the boys and girls went or were to go.

This girl, she said, pointing to a doll with almond-shaped eyes, and lips in a little pout, should have been born to Tan Xiaoliu and Dong Yue’e of Tan Family Village in August 1974, but I destroyed her. Now everything is fine. Her father is a wealthy farmer, her mother a resourceful woman, and together they invented a process of irrigating celery with cow’s milk to produce a fresh vegetable that sells for sixty yuan a jin.

This boy, Gugu said as she pointed to a laughing doll with eyes reduced to a squint, should have been born to Wu Junbao and Zhou Aihua of Wu Family Bridge in February 1983, but I destroyed him. Now everything is fine. The little imp is flooded with good luck, reborn into the family of an official in Qingzhou Prefecture. Both parents are Party cadres, and his grandfather is high-ranking provincial official who is regularly seen on TV. Gugu has done well by you, you little imp.

These two sisters, Gugu said as she pointed to a pair of dolls in one of the squares, should have been born in 1990. Both parents had leprosy, and even though the disease had been stopped, they had claws for hands and demonic faces. Being born into a family like that was the same as being thrown into the bitter seas, and destroying them was their salvation. Now everything is fine. On the first night of 2000 they were born at the People’s Hospital in Jiaozhou and became millennial babies. Their father is a renowned actor of Maoqiang opera, their mother owns a women’s boutique. On New Year’s day last year, the sisters appeared on a television program to sing the famous Maoqiang aria ‘Zhao Meirong Observes Lanterns’: Eggplant lantern, purple and neat/leek lantern, a messy treat/cucumber lantern, thorns all over/radish lantern, watery sweet/and then the crab lantern with buggy eyes/the hen lantern clucks as an egg lands at her feet . . . Their mother and father phoned to remind me to watch them on the Jiaozhou channel. I meant something to them. Pearly tears rolled down my cheeks.

Don’t forget this one, Gugu said as she pointed to a cross-eyed doll. He should have been born into the Dongfeng Village home of Zhang Quan, but I destroyed him. It wasn’t all my fault, but I bear some of the responsibility. In July 1995, the little imp was born to the second daughter of Zhang Quan, Zhang Laidi, in Dongfeng Village. Laidi came to see me. She already had two daughters, and another pregnancy would be illegal. Though her father had once cracked open my head, and there was a history of unpleasantness between us, I went ahead and returned to her the child that should have been born to her mother. He would have been her kid brother, and now he was her son. This is a secret that only I, and now you two know. You mustn’t tell anyone. He is not a good boy. Knowing that Gugu is afraid of frogs, he once handed me one wrapped in paper and nearly scared me to death. But I don’t hate him. In this mortal world, not a single person can be left out, not the good and not the bad . . .

The last square Gugu pointed to was the one in which she’d placed the doll after we walked in. Know who that is? she asked us.

There were tears in my eyes. Don’t say anything, Gugu, I know who he is.

Gugu, Little Lion said, that child will be born soon. His father is a playwright, his mother a retired nurse . . . thank you, Gugu, I’m pregnant . . .