The old monkey monster in my favorite story was such an animal spirit. To this day I remember vividly how Aunty told it to me.
“Once upon a time there was an old monkey monster who lived in the deep mountains. One day he saw a little girl in the village who was very pretty. He started a whirlwind that darkened the sky and put dust into everybody's eyes. In the wind, the old monkey monster grabbed the girl. Carrying her under his arm, he flew over many mountains and took her to his home, which was a dark, smelly cave.
“He asked the little girl to be his wife; but she said no. The old monkey monster was very angry. But he did not eat the girl. He shut her up in the cave.
“One morning when the old monkey monster went out to gather wild fruit, the girl's mother arrived. She had followed the whirlwind all the way to the cave. When she found her daughter there, she took her into her arms and the two of them cried. Afterwards she taught the girl what to say and went into hiding.
“Soon the old monkey monster came back, in a gust of wind. He came into the cave and sniffed around, saying: ‘The smell of a stranger person! The smell of a stranger person! If I catch her, I will eat her up!’
“The girl said: ‘Nonsense! There is no stranger person here. Only my mother came to visit us. She has a secret remedy that can cure your festering eyes.’
“When the old monkey monster heard this, he was very glad. For many years his eyes had been red and watery. They bothered him a lot. So he asked eagerly: ‘Where is your mother? Quickly bring her in. I want to see her. I will not eat her!’
“Hearing this, the mother came forward. She had gathered a lot of tree gum on her way, which she melted in a big wok and spread on a long piece of foot-binding cloth. She told the old monkey monster to sit still and shut his eyes while she put the medicine on. She wrapped the cloth round his head many times.
“'You must keep your eyes shut and do not move for three days. If you move or open your eyes before that, the medicine will not work and your eyes will never be cured!’ After she said this, she took her daughter by the hand and the two of them sneaked out of the cave. They returned home safe and sound. Three days later when the old monkey monster tried to open his eyes, he couldn't. For the glue had dried up. The cloth stuck to the old monkey monster's hair and skin. He could never get it off and open his eyes. After that, the mother and the girl lived together for many, many happy years.”
I loved this story. Each time I listened to it, Aunty's voice made me sense the danger and I was a little scared. I imagined myself to be the little girl who was snatched away by an old monkey monster. Yet I knew that I was safe, for Aunty was holding me with both her arms. Aunty, I believed, loved me as much as the little girl's mother did, and she was every bit as smart and brave. In the future she could and she would save me from the grip of any monsters.
Another scene I remembered was the pavement in Bern. In the spring when it rained, the pavement was covered with earthworms; I did not dare let my feet touch it. On such days Father would carry me to places on his shoulders, and I loved it there! My father by then was just over thirty. He was tall and handsome, always well dressed. I was very proud of him. He walked with long, springy steps on the sidewalk, overtaking other pedestrians. From time to time he rocked me a little. One step toward the left; one step toward the right. I was scared, so I held on tighter to his neck.
Besides earthworms, I was afraid of numerous other things. For instance, at home people had to warn me before they flushed the toilet; Aunty had to make sure I was out of the kitchen before she put vegetables into a hot wok. On the playground I was afraid of the swing and nobody could make me climb to the top of the slide. The seesaw was better, but when my end went up, it had to move very slowly and never go any higher than Aunty's waist. The sandbox was the only place where I felt safe. As a result, each day I made more cakes than the baker from across the street.
In winter after snow had fallen, sometimes Mother would take me to a small slope behind our house for sledding. I wore a little white fur coat and Mother a long green woolen overcoat. The new snow was soft. My footsteps were small and Mother's big. On our way we stopped beneath a leafless tree on which crimson apples hung. Pretty little birds were picking at them. Mother whistled to the birds and the little birds answered her. Then we were at the slope and the sled began to move. The wind blew into my face. I had to shut my mouth and hold my breath. Involuntary tears of fear fell down my cheeks like a little stream.
Once our lives were really in danger, Aunty said. By then I was four. “One day,” she said, “it was in May; your parents took us boating on a mountain lake. It was a nice day. Warm and sunny. Your father was half asleep. The boat drifted by itself. Suddenly he saw a sign—there was a waterfall downstream. Alarmed, he jumped up and tried to row the boat back. But he couldn't. At that place the lake narrowed. It was like a big river. The water was swift. Your mother tried to help. After a while, the sun was setting and no other people were in sight. We were all terribly frightened.
“I held you tightly in my arms. I thought if we were to go down that waterfall, I would die with you. At that moment I was really sorry I had come all the way to this foreign country to die. It was so far away from home. Our spirits would be lost. We'd be hungry ghosts for eternity.
“All this while your mother was furious; she scolded your father nonstop. Your father was furious too after a while. So he started to yell back. The two of them quarreled as if heaven and earth had been turned upside down. Yet in the meantime they rowed together as fast as they could.”
“What happened next? Did we go down the waterfall?” I asked.
“Of course not, you silly child! We were rescued by a steamboat.”
“Aunty! Was I afraid at the time?”
“No,” she said, “you were asleep in my arms. I did not wake you up.”
So on the day when our lives were really in danger, I was the only one who was not afraid. I was glad to hear that. By then my parents took me out more often, to parks, restaurants, and theaters. This I liked very much, not because I was sophisticated enough to appreciate the food and the performances. It was because I had a feeling that the people I met liked me. Mother agreed with me a few years later when we talked about this.
“People liked you because you were nice and sweet!” she said with a great deal of annoyance in her voice. “What has gotten into you and made you change so much after we returned to China that I can hardly recognize you?”
I had no answer to her question. It was true that my temper changed for the worse when I reached the age of seven. Somehow I lost the desire to be a sweet little girl.
My family went back to China when I was five. We traveled by train, on which we had a compartment to ourselves. Father, Mother, Aunty, and I each had a bed. My little brother, Lian, who was a baby, slept in a basket under Aunty's bed. Day after day I sat in front of the window to watch the scenery. The great cities of Europe were left behind. Vast wilderness of Siberia, Mongolia, and Manchuria rushed forward to welcome me back. Snow flakes in summer, tall grass to the end of the sky, yellow flowers, and blue lakes. Half a month later our train pulled into Yongding Gate Station in Beijing.
From there we went to Nainai's house, which was situated to the east of the forbidden city in a place known as Wangfujing. When we were in Switzerland, my paternal grandfather died of lung cancer. So by now Nainai was the head of the household. In fact, many said she was in charge even when her husband was alive.