Yan also thought about her real father again. His was the first death that ever struck her, yet it was different. Her father was just gone, lost in the vast ocean and never coming back. She didn’t see him die. She didn’t see him laid out for viewing. It was like a dream. When she woke up one day, he was gone, as if he had never existed. Whenever she thought about him or missed him, she could see a vivid image of him very much alive, a handsome, enthusiastic, middle-aged, muscular man in the prime of his life. She could see his laughing eyes, his shining black hair, and his dark eyebrows. She could see a strong man who could not possibly die. She sometimes had a romantic feeling that her father was very much alive, maybe somewhere on an island. He just could not get back home again because he had amnesia, was the prisoner of an evil emperor, or was stranded far away. But now, for the first time, she witnessed a death, a real death. She watched helplessly as Jin Lai struggled for her life. She saw how life was drawn out of a young body and she lost the fight for her own breath. And she felt for the first time how everything seemed to lose importance when life ceased to exist.

  Even though she had had mixed feelings toward her mother until the very end, Yan began to realize that she had become Jin Lai’s closest and most dutiful companion, and that she got to know her better than anyone else she had ever known. She attended Jin Lai all by herself for three and half years. They both shared the naïve, false hope that they could somehow triumph over TB. They rode up and down together through the long battle for survival, parting ways only when one became a witness to the loss of the battle, and the other became the casualty.

  Yan developed a sense of doom about her chance of ever having a mother, a mother who would love her, treasure her, and give her the soft affection that she so craved. Jin Lai’s shocking confession on her deathbed still echoed within her. Yan would do anything to have turned the tables on death, to nurse her mother back to health, to see her smile again, and to have a chance of a real mother-daughter relationship. Oh, curse you, death. And curse you, unreliable hopes and wishes. They disappeared like soap bubbles when you reached out for them.

  Chapter XIII

  A Father’s Love,

  a Daughter’s Rebellion

  It took a while before Yan could face reality again. Life had to go on for the living. She still had her little brother, her father, the apartment, and store to take care of. The more she worked, the less she had time to stare at Jin Lai’s portrait and think about death. As she went about her daily chores, she recovered little by little from the numbness of loss. She felt an urge to get out of the apartment and work on something more meaningful, so she went back to the Tong Yi Performing Arts Society, hoping, someday, to continue her career.

  Ho De was glad to see her get out of the stifling apartment. He even went so far as to see her performances a few times. A proud smile rose on his sad face every time he recalled his daughter standing at the center of the large stage, playing the heroine of The Big Storm, a famous play at the time. Yes, my daughter. Only a daughter from the Gu family could have done so well. But the dilemma was clear: The Gu family was a dignified one. What would the ancestors think about her being involved with the vulgar career of acting, which was almost on a level with prostitution?

  In the old days, the poorest families would sell their daughters to performing groups to entertain the rich. Even though the Communist Party made it clear that acting was now a respectable job because the actors and actresses worked for the government and for the entertainment and education of the masses, being on the stage meant his daughter could be seen and admired by everyone, not just by those who loved and admired her, but also by the lusting eyes of all men. His daughter could be heard by thousands over loudspeakers and even the radio. There was nothing he could do to prevent people from watching and listening to his daughter as long as she was out there performing for all to see.

  Ho De wished he could consult his pastor, as he used to for private matters that were too sensitive to talk about with friends or family. A man of God had answers for everything. But the communists had closed the church and sent the pastor away, leaving Ho De with no one to talk to. He suddenly thought of something he hadn’t done for years: visiting and getting advice from his ancestors in the family temple. After all, they were the very people whose honor he wished to guard. Then Ho De frowned. He remembered that the temple was not there anymore. He had learned from friends that his family shrine had been destroyed. All the sacred treasures within were gathered in the yard and burned: the books, the bamboo tablets that symbolized his ancestors, the holy incense, everything. The Goddess of Mercy statue was chopped into a pile of wooden splinters, and the local families used it as fuel to cook a few meals. Ho De had not been there to defend his ancestors.

  Why hadn’t he gone there earlier, packed up his ancestors, and taken them back to the apartment before it was too late? He felt heavy with guilt, knowing that he had completely ignored the temple and ancestors since his conversion to Christianity. It was depressing to imagine his ancestors’ souls homeless and wandering for eternity. It was too late to help the ancestors, but he could still defend his family honor.

  Ho De started to track all of Yan’s movements, even if it meant that he had to pay for a baby-sitter to take care of Chon Gao after school, or pay someone to watch the little store, or go to sleep late since Yan’s performances usually took place at night. He memorized all the places Yan went and the people she went out with when her performances were over. He waited patiently in the shadow of a building or a tree. That part of the city was always crowded, and no one ever paid any attention to him. The trickiest part was that he had to dash home before Yan got back so she would not know she was being followed.

  Ho De did not consider his behavior undignified or ungentlemanly; he felt that, while he searched for an excuse to steer her away from performing, he would be her silent guardian to protect or save her if necessary. But he knew the danger of his game. He knew his daughter would feel offended if she knew what was going on. He also knew how much she was enjoying the freedom and independence given to her by this communist society.

  Ho De also learned that his daughter went so far as to create for herself a new stage name: “Yan”—a high-flying swallow—which seemed to symbolize her wish for freedom and adventure. She was known by all her friends now as Yan, no longer his little Worshipping Beauty, Chon Mei, the name he gave her in accordance with the ancestral book. To Yan, Chon Mei was as distant as Ai Zhu, the Loving Pearl that had been so easily thrown away.

  Yan was invigorated by the magic of theater life. She loved being the center of attention, getting the main roles, and knowing she was good at playing them. Every afternoon, she jumped onto the same bus to get to rehearsals at Tong Yi. Every evening, she performed on the same stage under the same spotlight. Sometimes, she wore glittering costumes with long sleeves trailing behind her and heavy make-up that felt like a mask. Other times, she simply wore the everyday clothes of a schoolteacher, a student, a little girl, a journalist, or a mother. Stage life was exciting for Yan, and she felt herself “becoming” the characters in all these roles.

  When Yan arrived home each night after performing, a sense of excitement swept through the door with her. Even under the dim kitchen light, Ho De could see Yan’s sparkling eyes, animated face, flushed cheeks, and painted lips. It bothered Ho De to see his well-mannered, educated daughter turning into a showgirl right in front of his eyes. Acting was something for young people from poor families, making a living by selling their looks, despite what the Communist Party of China had to say. He had to do something about it.

  Ho De could just have stopped her from performing by using blunt words or locking her in her room. But he didn’t. He wasn’t sure what to do, because he was torn between his wish to preserve his daughter’s happiness—of which she had so little—and the wish to defend his ancestors’ honor. Ho De’s dilemma seemed hopeless as there seemed to be no middle ground for compromise. Besides, Ho De wasn’t the confrontational type. He would rather walk away from a problem, just as he had walked away from the Wellington Store and his secure life rather than dignify ridiculous rumors.

  But this time, it was different. This was not something Ho De could walk away from. It was not about himself. It was about his one and only daughter, whom he loved more than anything in the world. He feared that what she wanted to pursue happened to be the worst possible choice in life. However, he also sensed that, if he took any action, an unpleasant argument was inevitable. Ho De rarely argued with anyone, let alone with Yan. As it turned out, he was right to worry. When an argument finally broke out between the two of them, it was explosive enough to change the courses of both their lives.

  One day, Yan had no performances. Her little family rarely got to spend much time together anymore, and she wanted to spruce up the house and cook a decent meal they could all enjoy together. She got up early, went to the market to pick out the best items among the limited choices on the half-empty shelves, and dashed back home. She opened all the windows to air the rooms, took apart the quilts, soaked all the sheets and pillowcases in warm soapy water, dusted the rooms, washed the floors, hand-washed all the laundry, hung it out to dry, reassembled all the quilts, made the beds, and even had a few moments to darn a few socks, and patch the holes on Chon Gao’s pants.

  “Sit down for a few minutes,” Ho De finally ordered her. “Here, have a cold drink—it’s refreshing.” He brought her a glass of tea with tangerine peels in it.

  “Thanks, Dad.” Yan drank it down while standing. “Let me finish everything before dinner. I’m getting a lot done … I haven’t done this much since Mother passed away.” As she mentioned Jin Lai, their eyes met and turned moist, and Ho De hurried out of the room.

  Yan returned to her work.

  Finally, it was time to cook, set the table, and call the family for dinner. Yan had had a backbreaking time, trying to compress the week’s chores into one day. She sat down at the table, inhaled the aroma of food and fresh air in the room, and felt relaxed. The dinner conversation soon turned to Yan’s most recent successful performance, and how she came home very late, having been invited to the celebration party.

  Having sipped some rice wine earlier, Ho De became talkative. “Who was that young man who kissed your hand?” he asked. “He was very good-looking, and had nice manners.”

  Silence fell. Ho De had slipped. The smile on his face froze, and his chopsticks hung motionless in mid-air as he saw Yan’s animated expression change to puzzlement, sadness, and then, slowly to anger.

  “Have I been followed? Did you hire someone to follow me, or did you do it yourself? Why, Father? Why?” Yan’s voice got louder, and her face grew darker with every question. She understood why he did what he did, when he first followed her around the house and to the flower shop. But now, following her to the theater and parties, too? She would become a laughingstock: Yan, the high-flying swallow, tied to the ground by her father. She might as well forget about being a swallow if she could not break through her cage and fight for her freedom!

  “You never trust me. You never want me to do anything. You just wish to lock me up in this apartment to serve you and this little store,” Yan said, each accusation booming like thunder in Ho De’s heart and making him shiver.

  Ho De did not know what to say. He couldn’t have felt worse if he had been caught red-handed and thought about denying it, but he was not good at making things up. So, he decided to be honest.

  “I did it all to protect you,” he said with a purple face and veins the size of earthworms around his temples. “You are my daughter. You shouldn’t have been out after dark with strangers anyway. Acting is not for you. It’s for the lower classes. It brings shame to the Gu family. I think it is time I told you that you should stop going to Tong Yi, right now, before it is too late, or no honest, decent man will marry you!”

  Yan was now mad. She felt cornered and misunderstood. And she knew that her father was a stubborn man. Once he made a decision, it was impossible to change. Yan silently swallowed her protests, smothered what she knew would be even more lethal emotional explosions and managed to finish the rest of her dinner with her eyes cast down, her tears silently flowing into her bowl. She did not remember how she cleared the table, did the dishes, and ended up in her own room.

  For the first time since Jin Lai died, Yan did not bid her father goodnight. She did not peek through the keyhole to see how her father was doing or come out of her room. She spent the rest of the night on her bed, tossing and turning. Her mind raced like a flying shadow. She needed to sort through her young, tangled, and misused life. Her heart sank as she imagined herself as a white-haired grandmother wearing a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses and still selling soy sauce and toilet paper in this little store. She couldn’t go on living a life like this. She refused to weigh herself down with the penny-ante knickknacks here. She was a swallow now, and must soar toward the sky!

  For the next few days, she left home early each morning and roamed around the city, avoiding the neighborhoods near the opera society, the Big Stage, and all the places her theater friends gathered. Those familiar sights were too painful. All she wanted now was to let her legs carry her to the parts of the city she didn’t know and where she wasn’t known so she could plan her own flight to freedom.

  One day, she appeared in front of Ho De. Looking straight ahead, she told him: “Father, I have joined our glorious national effort to develop China’s Great Northwest. The government has assigned me to leave in two days.”

  It was now Ho De’s turn to be speechless. He knew his daughter was as determined and stubborn as he. He couldn’t stop her from going. He was smart enough to know that anyone who stood in the way of the government’s efforts would suffer serious consequences. Ho De was paralyzed. He could not apologize to her for blocking her acting career because it was against his conscience. He just wanted to kneel in front of her, beg her not to go, and tell Yan he needed her. How could he go on living without her? How could he?

  Unfortunately, he said nothing, and did nothing, to stop her.

  On the recruiting form, Yan registered her name officially for the first time as “Yan Gu”—her stage name—instead of Chon Mei. The little swallow was ready for an adventure, confident that her wings were strong enough to carry her anywhere she wanted to go. No more restrictions, no more pleasing others. For the first time in her life, Yan was doing something for herself, doing something because she wanted to do it. She packed herself up, said farewell to everyone, and flew into the unknown.

  Part II

  Two Destinies Entwined

  (Zhang Ye City, Gansu Province, 1957)

  Chapter I

  Young Pioneers

  It took a good hour of huffing and puffing to travel from the train station to the dormitory. The winding caravan paraded with little enthusiasm down a lonely dirt path. The donkey carts moaned and groaned under the weight of piles of luggage and glassy-eyed travelers. Everyone was puzzled, disappointed, and speechless: There were no welcome signs, flags, or crowds to receive them. The local government did not send representatives to host a ceremony, thanking the thousands of young volunteers for coming. They were just there, by themselves, in an empty train station after five days and five nights of backbreaking travel, taking them ever further away from home.

  They imagined themselves to be patriots who had sacrificed their own lives to benefit the nation. Many of them had left their secure, well-paying jobs to come here. Before they embarked on their journey, they were sent off as “heroes” by crowds of dancing and singing children amidst a sea of red flags. Now, they were just strangers in a strange land. The courageous travelers started to stagger, lagging behind the donkey carts, which were kicking up choking dust. Some of the pluckier New Heroes of the West managed to squeeze themselves onto the squeaking, wooden carts, while others dragged themselves forward, pulled by the prospect of a warm, soft bed, and a new place called home.

  Yan kept on walking. Her stiff legs were no match for the deeply rutted dirt road. She surveyed the area, and found nothing except rough open fields that extended as far as the horizon. Actually, the road they were on was part of the fields. It existed only because uncounted numbers of people had followed each other and walked over it for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. But all the millions of footsteps were not strong enough to crush the stones and level the road. The trail was an obstacle course, packed with surprises. Yan had to pay attention to where her feet landed or suffer a twisted ankle or nasty fall.

  The cunning wind was skillful at casually sweeping up dirt from the ground and blowing it right in her face. Yan felt the dry dust in her nose, mouth, and throat. She swallowed hard to get rid of it but as soon as she breathed, her throat filled up again. Her eyes watered, and her vision blurred. The dust eventually formed an opaque film on her thick glasses. She had to stop and wipe them clean before she could catch up with the others.

  The first impression of her new hometown was beyond the wildest imaginings of a city girl. She felt like she had landed on an alien planet of some sort. She had never seen so much dirt in her life. Dirt settled beneath her feet. Dirt swirled in the air. The air smelt like dirt. Even the houses were the color of dirt, since they were built with a mixture of dirt and water. To Yan’s amusement, people actually boasted about their homes, without shame, as “mud huts.”