“Wah!” Puffy Cloud said. “Cultivated. And lots of money, too.” I flashed an angry look to make her be quiet, and she, being seven years older, showed her usual resentment of my reprimands and returned a sour pout.
I was not able to see his features well, but I felt there was something familiar in his face and was nearly faint with nervousness. Was this man my father?
When they were about to ascend the staircase, I crept away. I hurried to Boulevard and hid under the bed. I would have to remain there another fifteen minutes when dusk turned to dark, and I would not be noticed behind the break in the curtains. The floor tiles were cold, and I regretted that I had not pulled a quilt around me first. I heard the office door open, followed by my mother’s and Golden Dove’s voices. Golden Dove asked my mother what refreshments she should bring. Usually, depending on the guest, there would be either a selection of fruit or English butter cookies, and tea. Mother said none was needed. I was shocked by her rudeness.
“I apologize for the lateness,” the man said. He sounded like an Englishman. “The mobs are tearing down the walls of the Old City and the roads are impassable. I left my carriage and went by foot, knowing you were waiting. It took me nearly three hours just to reach Avenue Paul Brunat.”
Mother did not reply with any appreciation that he had made this great effort to come. They moved toward the other end of the room. Even with the French doors ajar, their words were now too faint to understand. His low voice flowed smoothly. Mother’s was terse and choppy. Every now and then, she would eject a loud comment: “I doubt that very much.” “I did not receive them.” “He did not return.” All at once, she shouted: “Why do you want to see her now? How long has it been since you cared? You sent not a single word or dollar. You wouldn’t have cared if she and I had starved.”
I knew she was talking about me. He had never asked about me, had never loved me. Bastard. I immediately hated him.
He murmured fast words I could not understand. They sounded frantic. Then I heard his voice loudly and more clearly. “I was devastated, tormented. But they made it impossible.”
“Coward! Despicable coward!” Mother shouted.
“He was with the Office of Foreign Relations—”
“Ah, yes, family duty. Tradition. Obligation. Ancestors and burnt offerings. Admirable.” Her voice had come closer to the door.
“After all these years in China,” he said, “do you still not understand how powerful a Chinese family is? It’s the weight of ten thousand tombstones, and my father wielded it against me.”
“I understand it well. I’ve met many men, and their nature is like yours, predictably so. Desire and duty. Betrayal to both. Those predictable men have made me a very successful woman.”
“Lucia,” he said in a sad voice.
“Don’t call me that!”
“You must listen, please.”
I heard the office door open and Golden Dove’s voice broke in. “Excuse me,” she said in Chinese. “There is an urgent situation.”
Lu Shing started to introduce himself in Chinese, and Golden Dove cut him off. “We’ve met before,” she snapped. “I know quite well who you are and what you did.” She returned to speaking to my mother in a more even voice. “I need to speak to you. It concerns Violet.”
“She’s here, then,” the man said in an excited voice. “Please let me see her.”
“I will let you see her when you’re dead,” Mother replied.
I was still furious but buoyed that he wanted to see me. If he came to me, I would reject him. It was now dark enough in the room for me to go to the French doors. I wanted to see his expression. I was halfway out from under the bed when I heard Mother and Golden Dove close the office door and walk into the hallway. Suddenly the door to Boulevard opened, and I tucked myself back under the bed close to the wall and held my breath.
“This is too hard for you to bear alone,” Golden Dove said quietly in English. “I should be there.”
“I prefer to do this on my own.”
“If you need me, ring the bell for tea. I’ll wait here in Boulevard.”
My heart turned over with dread. I would soon turn into a frozen corpse.
“No need,” Mother said. “Go have dinner with the others.”
“At least let me have the maid bring you tea.”
“Yes, that would be good. My throat has gone dry.”
They left. I took a big breath.
I heard the maid arrive, followed by the sound of clinking teacups and polite words. I eased my way out from under the bed and was shivering with cold and nervousness. I rubbed my arms and pulled a quilt from the bed and wrapped it around me. When my teeth stopped chattering I went to the glass doors, and peered through the curtain opening.
I knew instantly that this man was my father by my own features: the eyes, the mouth, the shape of my face. I felt a nauseating wave of resignation. I was half-Chinese. I had known it all along, yet I had also clung to the better side of ambiguity. Outside of this house, I would never belong. Another feeling crept over me: a strange victory that I had been right in believing Mother had been lying to me. My father existed. I had exchanged the tormenting question with the awful answer. But why did Mother hate him so much that she had refused to see him all these years? Why had she preferred to tell me he had died? After all, I had asked her once if he loved me, and she had said yes. Now she claimed he had not.
Mr. Lu put his hand on Mother’s arm, and she flung it away and shouted, “Where is he? Just tell me and get out!”
Who was he?
The man attempted to touch her arm again, and she slapped his face, then beat her fists on his shoulders as she wept. He did not move away but stood oddly still, like a wooden soldier, letting her do this.
She seemed more desperate than angry, and it frightened me, because I had never seen her this way. Whose whereabouts were so important to her?
She finally stopped and said in a cracked voice: “Where is he? What did they do with my baby boy? Is he dead?”
I clamped my hand over my mouth so they could not hear my cries. She had a son and she loved him so much she had cried for him.
“He’s alive and healthy.” He paused. “And he knows none of this.”
“Nothing of me,” Mother said flatly. She went to the other end of the room and wept with heaving shoulders. He came toward her, and she motioned him to stay where he was. I had never seen Mother cry so much. She sounded as if she had just suffered a great loss, when, in fact, she had just learned she had not.
“They took him away from me,” he said. “My father ordered it. They would not tell me where. They hid him and said they would never allow me to see him if I did anything to harm my father’s reputation. How could I go to you? You would have fought. You did before, and they knew you would continue to do so. In their eyes, you respected nothing about our traditions. You would not understand their position, their reputation. I could not say anything to you, because that act alone would have been the end of my ever seeing our son. You are right. I was a coward. I did not fight, as you would have. And what is worse, I betrayed you and justified why I had to do so. I told myself that if I submitted to their will, you would have a chance of soon having him back. Yet I knew that was not true. Instead I was killing what was pure and trusting in your heart. I was tormented by it. Every day, I have woken with that thought of what I did to you. I can show you my journals. Every day, for these last twelve years, I wrote one sentence before all others. ‘To save myself, I destroyed another,