After an entire season of hard labor, An Chu and Yan moved on to a new business venture together.

  The early morning hours now found them bicycling to the western suburbs of Shanghai, where they spent entire days wading in cold rivers and creeks looking for a certain type of reed, which locals used to wrap fragrant rice, peanuts, meat, and beans. The reeds were called zhongye and they grew only in the wild, often hidden in thickets along the banks of rivers. Finding them took a lot of time and patience, and more than once they failed to find their quarry, walking back to their bicycle empty-handed, cold, wet and muddy. There was nothing to be done except to pedal their way to another river and start all over again.

  Sometimes nature surprised them with other, unexpected wild bounty: water celery, edible watercress, lotus roots, and duck and goose eggs, which they carefully wrapped in straw and took home for a feast. Their most joyful moments, however, came when they peered into a tangle of vegetation and spied the uniquely shaped reeds they were hunting. Time meant money and they began picking them, stacking them into neat piles, and finally bundling and stuffing them into giant cotton bags. Their bicycle was loaded until it looked like a balancing act in a circus. Only then would they set out toward home. Any reeds left behind might not be there the next time they came back for there were plenty of reed-hunters out there just like them.

  An Chu and Yan happily pushed the bike and their loot all the way home. Sometimes, it took them two and half hours, but they arrived tired and happy.

  They spent the next few days roaming through the neighborhood, selling their prizes and collecting a few small coins in return.

  “Reeds for sale!”

  “Reeds for sale!” Their cheerful duet echoed through small lanes and alleys, accompanied by the silvery sound of their bicycle bell.

  When business was good, Yan had enough spare money to buy sticky rice and meat for her own zhongzi. They were rare treats, well worth the cost and effort of making them. More than almost any other Chinese delicacy, these ancient culinary inventions give pleasure not just while they are eaten, but for many long, delicious hours before they are served.

  Zhongzi-making is an art. First, the rice must be soaked for just the right amount of time with just the right amount of water. Over-soaked rice turns into a slippery, soggy mess; under-soaked rice recalls nothing so much as the gravel Yan slaved to make.

  The traditional way to make zhongzi is to use two or three reeds, bending them into a fat cone. Some of the soaked rice is spooned in, followed by pieces of marinated meat, dried shrimp, preserved egg yolk, peanuts, and pickles flavored with star anise or whatever else the cook had on hand, giving each zhongzi a unique and surprising center. The cone is completed with another spoonful of rice and the reeds folded over to seal it. The whole thing is then bound with string. When completed, a zhongzi resembles a dark, glossy green pyramid, appealing to the eyes.

  When she finished all the wrapping, Yan lowered the zhongzi one by one into their largest pot, brimming with hot water, and let them slowly simmer for hours until the air was saturated with the fragrance of the reeds and everything inside. A sense of well-being and plenty came over everyone in the dark, wooden shack. Tonight, and for several nights, they would eat well, and dreams of better days seemed more real.

  Chapter V

  Moments of Reflection

  While working in the countryside, An Chu developed a passion for fishing. He made instant rods out of sticks, cast his lines along rivers and creeks, and tied his tackle to nearby bushes or trees before joining his wife to scout the riverbanks. For most of the day, they searched through thickets and harvested any reeds and wild edibles they could find. When the workday was over, An Chu made his way back to his fishing gear. His heart pounded as he lifted the lines out of the water, eager to see what was waiting for him. Even in between examining the many disappointingly empty hooks, there was hope. An Chu always caught something before the day was over. Whether it was big or small, a fish, a crab or an eel, the catch of the day meant dinner that night would be a minor feast.

  An Chu and Yan gradually made a life together even if it meant they had to hunt around for odd jobs and were still dirt poor. They had to start from somewhere, and they were proud of their progress. It was a period of want, and yet they were happy, roaming fields, exploring rivers, sensing the mysteries of fate, and hunting for nature’s hidden bounty. They were a pair of free-spirited birds, and their bicycle served as their wings, taking them to places they wanted to go and returning them to their simple nest at the end of each day. Unlike the life they had known in the west, there were no political meetings to attend and there was no one to tell them what to do. Outside the boundaries of society, there seemed to be nothing but pure and simple life pleasures waiting for them each day. Neither had steady jobs nor income, yet Nature did not let them starve.

  Unlike Yan, who liked to comb the river banks inch by inch and carefully pick whatever tiny treasures she found—a few watercress, wild celery stalks or reeds—An Chu was bold, letting his curiosity lead the way. He jumped from one place to another, poked here and there, hoping to hit it big with some spectacular find. After only fifteen minutes of such adventures, his black cotton shoes looked like muddy crabs and his pant legs were dripping with water. His eyes searched thick patches of vegetation. One day, after taking only half a dozen steps into some tall reeds, he stopped in disbelief.

  “Yan, come here!”

  “What for?”

  “Come here right now!”

  Yan hurriedly finished her own work, scooped up the pile of greens she had collected and waded toward An Chu in the cold, ankle-deep water.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m here! Just walk into the reeds toward my voice.”

  In a maze of water weeds, Yan finally found her husband standing in front of her with an impish smile. He was coated with mud from head to toe.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I was wrestling with a water monster and fighting for his treasure. I’ll show you in a minute.” An Chu eagerly parted the thicket in front of him and showed her his surprise: A cluster of jade-green eggs miraculously appeared in front of her.

  “Duck eggs!” Yan exclaimed. “What a luxury!” She put down her water celery and helped An Chu put the eggs in his blue workman’s cap. “I’ll make some steamed custard for Ping.”

  An Chu was pleased.

  “I’ll also make some thousand-year-old eggs and save them for the holidays.”

  “That’s planning too far ahead. That’s four months away. Isn’t your father coming tomorrow? I think we should use the eggs to make something nice for him.” An Chu held the cap with both hands and waited for Yan’s approval.

  Yan nodded gratefully.

  They gathered all their booty together, wrapped it up, tied it to their bicycle, and rode home together as the sun set.

  Although it boasted nothing more than a dirt floor, some crude furniture, and a leaking roof, the cramped, wooden cube that made up the newest Sun household was often a box of joy, filled with laughter and singing, the hopeful sounds of a babbling baby, and fragrant but not-quite-identifiable whiffs of roasted onions, wild greens, and An Chu’s latest freshwater surprises.

  By then Ho De was a regular guest at this ramshackle paradise. Every Friday, he came to share the pleasures of family, most of which he had lost when his wife died and Yan ran away. His “son” Chon Gao was turning out to be a troublesome teenager, more interested in getting into mischief with his neighborhood friends than spending time with his boring old father. Alone and with nothing else to do, Ho De buried himself in work. His life became a heavy, continuous chain of responsibilities and solemn duties, performed without any pleasure. He had little to live for and nothing to look forward to. His only occupation during the long, hollow year Yan was in the desert was self-reflection. He was angry at himself for having driven his warm, smart, and affectionate daughter away. He felt responsible for her being in peril somewhere in a barbarous place thousands of miles away—too far for a helpless old man to reach and beg her to return home. Ho De felt desperate. He would have set aside his pride and dignity to get Yan back, but he did not know where to go. It served him right to lose his own happiness. He punished himself by counting the number of days and hours since Yan left—right up until the moment she miraculously reappeared in front of his door.

  That was the longest year of Ho De’s life, filled with sleepless nights and nightmares that haunted him even during the day. Ho De, once a strong, decisive man, spent his days sighing, shaking his head, and mumbling to himself. After all, who else could he speak to and unload all the worries and anxieties he had inflicted on himself? Who could comfort him, talk to him, and give him strength? Yan had been the one who had done all these things. He had little, if any, contact with his relatives since he left the watch and clock business. Through rumors he learned that almost all his relatives had gotten into trouble under Mao’s regime: Their businesses were taken over by the state, their lands were confiscated, and their houses handed over to the government. They had enough trouble already and could barely take care of themselves. They probably thought Ho De was the lucky one who had gotten away.

  Since Yan’s return, Ho De felt alive again. He was happy. The very thought of his new granddaughter made his heart sing.

  It had been so long since he last handled a baby. He felt clumsy and frightened while holding Ping, yet he didn’t want to put her down. Sometimes when he babysat for Ping, Ho De just stared at her, and guarded her while she slept. An eyeful of her restored meaning to his life. When he first saw her, he was horrified by her size—she seemed no bigger than a doll. At four pounds, six ounces, Ping was small enough to fit into a shoebox and until An Chu built a cradle, that is where they kept her. Ho De liked it better when Ping grew to be a toddler and could sit, stand, or wobble on her own, and he did not have to worry that some slight motion might break the baby’s tender neck or twist her thin arms.

  Ho De found himself visiting his daughter because he missed Ping. Then he began staying for dinner. Soon, he was visiting his daughter’s house every Friday. He looked forward to the end of the week, when he closed his store, boarded a bus and headed toward his daughter’s place, knowing a cozy dinner and a smiling granddaughter were waiting for him. He always brought her a treat and tickled her.

  Ho De was very much aware of the poverty An Chu and Yan lived in. Their hut’s bare walls and dirt floor told the story better than words. He left Yan a little cash whenever he could afford to spare it, but it was never as much as he wanted. The salary he received from selling soy sauce, vinegar, soap and sewing needles was barely enough for Chon Gao and himself. As it was, they had to skip a meal here and there just to keep things going.

  Ho De felt tired from the blows life had dealt him. The memories of being the master of an estate, surrounded by his own fields and tended by his own relatives, still seemed so real that he sometimes caught himself smiling and thinking that soon he would be retiring there. But, when he realized that everything was gone, it was like losing it all over again. Ho De had to shut out thoughts of the days when he put on his favorite western suit and tie, affixed his gold eyeglasses to his nose, and strode proudly down the street with his polished walking stick toward his job at the Wellington Clock & Watch Shop.

  Now his wife was dead, his clothes smelt like soy sauce and vinegar, and he struggled to keep a few pennies in his pocket. Sometimes, Ho De wondered if the things he remembered from his past life had ever really existed.

  Ho De’s only moments of escape came while visiting Yan and An Chu. He learned to appreciate his son-in-law and grew fond of him.

  An Chu was nothing even remotely like the man Ho De had imagined would become Yan’s husband—not socially, not financially, not intellectually. An Chu had only managed to finish third grade. His conversations were straightforward and matter of fact. Even in appearance, Ho De had envisioned someone a bit taller and better-groomed. Yet Ho De liked him. An Chu’s inner goodness charmed him. His life had turned upside down but An Chu possessed the ability to calm him and made him forget about the outside world. His generosity and honesty impressed Ho De and warmed his frail heart. Ho De knew how An Chu always saved some of his small weekday catch for their Friday dinner in anticipation of his coming, how An Chu tried to bring out anything and everything they had to please him, how An Chu would hold his arm in the dark alley while accompanying him to the bus stop, only leaving when he got on the bus. “See you next Friday, Dad,” he always said to him right before the bus door closed. “I’ll catch something nice and save it for you.”

  This was a son-in-law who did not have anything but was willing to give away everything he had. Ho De loved An Chu for that.

  Chapter VI

  A Job … with a Catch

  When Ping was fifteen months old, Yan learned she was pregnant again. For the safety of the unborn child, she could no longer ride behind her husband on their bike and roam the countryside.

  It was an untimely pregnancy. Neither Yan nor An Chu had a job. The coming of another child forced them to realize it was time for An Chu to look for stable work again, any work. They scouted out every possibility and after a few months, An Chu found a lead: The district House & Land Management Bureau was looking for new full-time employees. There was a catch, however: To be eligible, applicants had to agree to work in a remote bamboo forest for three full years. The bureau needed bamboo for scaffolding, and people needed jobs, so they would do just about anything to get them. Three years of back-breaking labor in a faraway jungle was not a pleasant prospect but to get a full-time job in Shanghai and make sure his little family did not starve, An Chu was willing to consider it.

  After the revolution in 1949, the real estate business in China disappeared. The government took sole control of all property, and private ownership was prohibited. The establishment of so-called “house and land management agencies” met the nation’s needs for housing, emergency repairs, and rent collection. Since every one of China’s billion people needed to live somewhere, a position in the agency was a very good opportunity.

  Still, An Chu worried about being away for so long. What if the roof leaked? What about the heavy household chores that needed to be done regularly, like carrying home crates of charcoal or the family’s allotted twenty-five-pound bag of rice? Yan did not even know how to ride a bike. She would have to do everything on foot while having to take care of two young children by herself. An Chu knew that even though they lived right next door, his family never helped them out. Maybe Yan would have a boy this time. His mother would be so happy that she would lend a hand. But what if it were another girl? An Chu didn’t share his thoughts with Yan. He didn’t want to upset her.

  The young couple was tempted to snatch up this rare job opportunity, yet they hesitated, just as they would in snatching up a roasting sweet potato that had fallen into the fire even though their stomachs were empty. They talked about it for a whole week. Then, they agreed to think about it for another week, hoping something less difficult and closer to home would turn up. Finally, one night before the deadline, and with no other offers in sight, it was time to decide.

  Staring at Yan’s swollen stomach and with his young daughter playing at his feet, An Chu rose abruptly.

  “I am going to take that job before all the openings are gone,” he announced, as if in a rehearsed speech. “This is not the perfect job for us, but you will need a doctor very soon.”

  “But—”

  Before Yan could agree or try to change his mind, An Chu was out the door.

  Because of his impressive physical strength and construction experience, An Chu easily got the job. He also got the company’s consent to let him work in Shanghai until Yan gave birth.

  The entire Sun family waited nervously for the arrival of An Chu’s second child, praying to the Goddess of Mercy, lighting incense, and hoping that this time the baby would be a boy.

  It had to be a boy. An Chu’s brother had just had a child and it turned out to be another worthless girl. Having too many girls meant that the family was being weighed down by yin—dark energy. The Sun family needed males to boost its strength and continue their proud lineage.

  They got their chance three months later. Yan went into labor and was admitted to the Shanghai Number One Maternity and Childcare Hospital. After twenty-three hours of labor, fate rendered its verdict and a woman doctor presented Yan with a little bundle—me.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “It’s a lovely little girl.”

  The doctor was a small, middle-aged woman who looked as if she had not slept for a month. With puffy eyelids, a complexion drained pale by overwork, and tangled, messy hair, she looked more exhausted than her patient. But her eyes were kind and so was her voice.

  “You’ve got a very special baby. She was the only girl out of the thirteen babies born here today. See how white her skin is, almost translucent. It’s obvious that since this is the Year of the Mouse, she must be from the lucky Kingdom of White Mice.” She reached out her right index finger and gave the baby’s face a gentle brush.