“Clothing stores” sprang up on street corners, boasting the latest fashions directly from Paris and New York. In truth, they were imitations at best. In those days, no one knew any real foreign fashion labels. Names like “Paris,” “New York,” “French,” or “American” were tempting bait for ignorant and eager fashion-seekers, although the clothes were more likely designed and made locally, based on people’s imaginings of what foreign fashions were like. But for now, everybody felt content with their own idiosyncratic “mix-and-match” fashion statements: A woman wore a costume-like blouse with puffy sleeves over a pair of army uniform pants and sneakers—part of her revolutionary wardrobe that she had not yet retired. A man wore a tie inside a Mao jacket—he had yet to save enough money to buy himself a Western suit. In the early morning, it was even possible to see a second-class Cinderella in glittering ball gown and wooden slippers, yawning sleepily and heading toward the fish market to do her shopping. Everyone was looking for novelty. No one knew what the next fashion craze would be. At one point, folding umbrellas with colorful floral prints became a hit. Thousands of them were smuggled into the southern coastal cities and spread all over the country. People began showing their individuality even when it rained.

  As the country began to prosper, the days of ration coupons came to an end. People were overjoyed to be able to buy whatever they wanted. After decades of spartan living, everyone craved things, new things, things they had never seen or tasted before.

  As mandatory political meetings disappeared, people started to use their extra time looking for ways to make money so they could buy novelties such as television sets, cameras, electric fans, coffee, chocolate, foreign cigarettes, and better food for their dinner tables.

  Father was very excited to see all the changes around him. Change meant hope. He felt he could finally see light at the end of the endless tunnel of ordeals he had endured. Maybe his company would erase the false accusations in his personnel records and give him a public apology. Maybe he would be reimbursed for his lost salary. Father was filled with optimism.

  The newspaper became his best friend. Every day, he read Deng Xiaoping’s speeches line by line, searching for the new direction of our future. Father admired Deng very much, for he, too, had endured political hardship.

  “Look, Chairman Deng said it right here,” he said pointing his finger to a headline on the front page. “‘Whether it’s a black cat, or a white cat, it’s a good cat so long as it can catch a rat.’ You don’t have to worry about my tainted political past anymore. Deng sees who you are based on your own behavior, not your family background.”

  Father sighed with relief, for indeed, Deng’s political direction was a dramatic departure from Mao’s. Father did not have to worry about how his past would affect our future anymore, whether his name was cleared or not. He even dared to dream about me getting a four-year university education, as rumors surfaced about the National College Entrance Exams being reopened to the general public for the first time since the fall of Imperial China.

  The political tables were finally turning in our favor. Father could actually go and visit doctors, although his health had already declined dangerously. His acute hepatitis had long since turned chronic and he now suffered from diabetes, high blood pressure, heart problems, and rheumatism. He looked like an old man, even though he was only in his early forties. A decade of physical and emotional torture had put many wrinkles on his face, weakened his body, bent his back, and taken most of his black, wavy hair. Still, he was much happier than he’d been in years.

  “Let me go and get that,” he volunteered when Mother needed a box of matches or a cup of soy sauce.

  “No more ration coupons!” he exclaimed with his arms up like a child before he headed out to the store.

  Since private detention was no longer allowed, Father’s company was forced to put him back to work. In consideration of his health, he was reassigned to a security job at a warehouse, where he could sit with a cup of tea all day in exchange for a meager salary. For companionship, he found himself an old broken radio, had it fixed, and took it to work. Every morning, he always reported to his job early, sitting in the open with his reading glasses and a newspaper. He read carefully and even took notes on the side.

  When the younger workers came to fetch their supplies or drop off their tools, they teased him.

  “Hey, old man, when did you become a professor?”

  “I’m not one,” Father answered seriously, “but my daughters will be. They will all go to college soon.”

  The workers laughed, for the idea of college was so new that it was still reserved for the privileged few. It was hard for them to make the connection with the daughters of a poor, uneducated man with patched clothes and a politically troubled past.

  “Hold your laughs, because you’ll need them in a couple of years. I may look like an old beggar, but my daughters are like golden phoenixes from a straw nest. They will fly. Oh, yes, they will.”

  Though they scoffed at the time, my father’s prediction came true, and he lived to see his colleagues eventually greet his daughters as the “Little Golden Phoenixes,” which gladdened his heart. Life would not turn out to be as easy as An Chu believed it would be, but for the moment, he, my mother, and their four little girls sensed the fluttering wings of a rare feeling called hope.

  Postlude

  A Prophecy Ends

  (Shanghai, December 1999)

  Ataxicab crept slowly through Jubilee Court, weaving its way through a maze of waiting limousines, fur-clad women with flower bouquets, and young girls walking expensive dogs. It stopped in front of a tiny two-story home on the left side, its old, plain concrete structure out of place next to the stately villas with their fresh green paint and black, ornate iron rails. The passenger side of the door opened, Ping handed the driver some cash and stepped out.

  She guided Yan’s legs out onto the pavement, gently wrapped her arms around her body, and pulled her out of the car. She grabbed a stack of dried herb packets from the back seat and slammed the door shut. Ping put her hand under her mother’s arm, and they walked slowly towards the house.

  Yan had third-stage ovarian cancer and was weak from many rounds of chemotherapy. It took Ping a long time to get her upstairs and settled into bed with a small glass of watermelon juice she had prepared earlier.

  Ping checked the time. It was one in the afternoon already, way past their lunch time but she needed to get her mother’s medicine going first. Since Yan’s refusal a month ago to continue the hospital treatments, Ping knew her mother’s life depended on the herbs from the Chinese pharmacy. She opened a packet and poured its contents into a blackened earthen pot. Dried roots, insects, snakeskin, and unidentifiable bits of plants created a small pile in the bottom of the pot, on top of which Ping tossed a gauze-wrapped pack of special ingredients the druggist had prepared to activate the herbs. She shook the pot, and poked and examined its contents, making a mental note how this prescription was different from the last one, before she filled it with water and put it on top of the gas stove. She struck a match and watched the flickering blue fire. It would take a couple of hours of simmering before the medicine was ready. Now, she could think about lunch.

  The house is awfully quiet. Is Father home? she wondered.

  An Chu usually sat in the kitchen with his radio blasting, sipping a mug of black tea and waiting for her when it was time for lunch. But Mother’s weekly appointment lasted much longer than they had anticipated.

  He probably left for his mother’s house already, Ping thought. I hope he ate something. Ping opened up the refrigerator in the musty, dark kitchen and noticed that the bowl of black noodles with vegetables and shredded chicken she left for him had not been touched. An Chu never liked those special noodles for diabetics, but Ping bought them anyway. She reached for a bag of frozen dumplings. They would make a quick meal.

  Whenever she couldn’t find An Chu, Ping always assumed he had gone to his mother’s house. Where else would he go? Since his release from Shanghai Prison ten years ago, he seldom went anywhere or spoke to anyone outside his family. The final, unexpected prison sentence, coming after all those long years of detention hit him hard. Besides losing all his hair and teeth, he finally gave up the most important thing within him: his optimism. He avoided talking about his seven years behind bars with real criminals. In fact, he was silent most of the time, except, of course, when he went to see his mother.

  Since his father’s death two years ago, An Chu loved spending his days with his mother. Sometimes he came back home only for lunch, dinner, and sleep. Ping heard many reports from neighbors and friends that they often spotted them together in local snack shops, feasting on piles of ice-cream bars, cupcakes, and other sweet treats, along with two cans of Coca-Cola each. And both of them were severely diabetic! An Chu’s mother, Ya Zhen, who was now in her mid-eighties and a bit senile, may not have known what she was doing, but An Chu’s mind was still sound. Diabetes attacked his vision, affected his circulation, and weakened his legs, and now he was killing himself with sweets! Every time Ping confronted him, he shook his head and denied it.

  “Must be a mistake … must be someone else.”

  But no one could mistake the coat on his back, torn and dirty, the color faded beyond recognition. Even the migrant workers wore better clothes these days. On the streets of Shanghai, An Chu’s coat wasn’t good enough for a beggar! He had many new coats in the closet, but he only picked his shabby coat to wear.

  Sometimes Ping wondered if it was only the ghost of her father lingering in front of her, for he had no resemblance to the father she so fondly remembered before he was sent to Shanghai Prison. Ping missed his laughter and the humorous remarks that always came to him so easily, even when she visited him in his tiny detention cell during the 60s. But who could blame him? When the Cultural Revolution was finally over, his family and friends all expected that he would get a formal apology from the company and be compensated one way or another for all the mental and physical hardships he had endured. True, they were forced to give him a menial job and keep him on for a few years, but he always stayed hopeful that someday they would clear him and admit their mistake.

  Everyone was dumbfounded when, instead, he was taken away in handcuffs again and secretly sentenced to a seven-year term to pay for the crimes he had committed in support of (!) the Cultural Revolution. How could anyone be punished twice—for being for and against the same thing? It didn’t make any sense, except that my father was a constant reminder of their guilty past and they finally couldn’t stand to have him around anymore, so another unprovable charge was trumped up. The lawyer we hired with borrowed money wasn’t even told about the trial until after the sentence was passed.

  “This is very complicated,” he said. “The order came from up above and I don’t have the power to help you.”

  The downstairs bedroom door was closed. Ping pushed it open. It was pitch black inside. She drew the curtains aside and was surprised to find her father still in bed.

  “Dad, are you alright?”

  An Chu opened his eyes slightly and closed them again, his face gray.

  “Should I take you to the hospital?”

  He shook his head.

  “Help me to get up,” he said. “I’ll eat something and feel better.”

  Ping looked around his bed, searching for clothes. She picked up a pair of thermal underwear, stained and filled with holes. “Dad, let me get you a fresh change of clothes. I’ll help you get dressed and then make some dumpling soup for lunch, okay?”

  She finally got him seated in the kitchen with a large, steaming mug of black tea. “The doctor gave Mom a new prescription to help her sleep better at night,” Ping said as she stirred her pots and pans. “Feel warm in your new clothes, Dad?”

  An Chu nodded as he sipped his tea. His face showed some uneasiness about the stiff new clothes underneath his worn, shabby coat.

  “Qin called last night. She wants to come and visit us in August. She’s bringing Halley with her. But the baby is only one, too small for the summer heat and mosquitoes here. Besides, she shouldn’t leave her husband and six-year-old son Keaton by themselves for three weeks. I told her to stay in New York and not to bring any more money here, either. Mother doesn’t want any more hospital treatments, so we don’t need extra money. But I know she’s coming anyway. Min also wants to come in October with Angela. I told her to book a hotel room.”

  Ping stopped her monologue and started to lower the dumplings into the boiling water one at a time. She glanced at her father. He was staring into his mug, but she knew he was listening.

  “You’re going to meet your two new granddaughters from America! Aren’t you excited?”

  An Chu was still quiet, staring at his tea.

  Ping brought the pot of dumpling soup to the table and put down three bowls and spoons. As she stirred the pot with a ladle, the scent of sweet sesame oil and roasted scallions escaped with the rising steam. An Chu lifted his head, sniffed the air eagerly, and watched as she scooped a dozen dumplings into the first bowl and presented it to him. He held up the bowl with shaky hands, wanting more.

  “Dad, you’re not a beggar. I’d like to give you more. I would even give you the whole pot of dumplings, but you’re diabetic. Remember what the doctors said about limiting starch? Starch turns into sugar and is bad for you!”

  An Chu continued to hold up his bowl. Ping shook her head and gave him two more dumplings. She then prepared a small bowl for her mother. As she climbed the stairs to take Yan her lunch, she took in the sight of a very shabby old man at the table, gulping down his dumplings. When he finished, he wiped his face on his sleeve. Glancing left and right to make sure that no one was watching, he got up, ladled himself another bowl and sat down to eat again. Soon after, Ping heard the loud bang of the front door closing and she knew he had left.

  An Chu didn’t want to go out. He had woken up with the worst pounding headache he had ever had and couldn’t move his left arm to reach the lamp next to him. He struggled to flip himself sideways and finally turned on the light. Everything in the room was a blur, with patches of light and strange shapes swimming in front of him. Did a blood vessel break in his eye? He was worried but he didn’t want to go to the hospital and have it checked out. No doctors could help him. They only wanted money. He closed his eyes, turned off the light, and remained in bed. He probably would have stayed in bed for the entire day if Ping hadn’t come into his room, but he was glad she did. It was time for him to get up and visit his mother. She often forgot to eat her lunch these days, and sometimes she ate twice. He needed to check on her. Besides, he didn’t want her to be disappointed since she waited for him every day, rain or shine, in front of her building. His visit was often the highlight of her day.

  He limped slowly forward. It took him a long time to cover the thirty feet between his house and the lane. He adjusted his walking stick with his right hand and wobbled on. First, he wanted to stop by a vendor who made delicious, roasted steamed buns that his mother liked.

  By the time An Chu got what he had wanted, the winter sun was already making its way toward the horizon. The small package of buns weighed heavily on his wrist as he plodded his way forward. All of a sudden, he saw only darkness in front of his eyes and collapsed onto the sidewalk. As he lay on the frozen ground, he saw himself still walking toward his mother’s house.

  Hurry, I must hurry. Mother is still waiting for me. She is hungry.

  He kept on walking, and walking, but he couldn’t get to her. He tried hard to open his eyes and move his arms and legs, but he couldn’t. A few passersby saw an old man lying on the sidewalk and came to help.

  “Grandpa, Grandpa,” they called, but he didn’t respond. They decided to carry him into a nearby bank and placed him on a long wooden bench. At least it was warm inside. They tried to wake him up.

  Ya Zhen stood outside her building, her arms folded, hands in her sleeves, feet stamping like an anxious little girl, and gleeful eyes full of hope. She was cold and hungry. She didn’t know how late it was. Time didn’t mean much to her these days, but she knew her son would come soon and bring her food. He always did, and she wanted to look out for him and catch him. A gust of wind howled at her, grabbed her hair willfully and tossed it into her face. She struggled to push it away from her eyes, her hands waving frantically in midair as if to shoo away that naughty natural force.

  “Hi, grandmother,” a young neighbor greeted her as she was leaving the building. “It’s cold. Why don’t you step inside?”

  “My son is coming,” Ya Zhen exclaimed eagerly with a big smile, her stomach growling. “He and his old beggar, they always bring me my lunch.”

  “Old beggar?” The young woman looked confused. She walked away.

  An hour later, she came back to the building with an armload of groceries and found Ya Zhen still standing there, her lips purple and her body shivering.

  “Hi, grandmother. It’s cold. Let me take you inside.” She extended her one available arm.

  Ya Zhen moved away from her. She was determined to stay there and wait, her eyes stubbornly surveying the people passing by.

  The young woman shook her head and walked into the building.

  These days, it was hard for Ya Zhen to tell the beggar apart from her own son. Though she called him “Son,” the now elderly man coming to her home daily bearing food looked a lot like the one who had arrived at her door and asked for food almost a lifetime ago. She was young then, barely nineteen, and about to have her first child. He had come to her to be fed and she fed him so he wouldn’t die of starvation. He turned out to be not just a poor, homeless man, but a tricky, manipulative wandering soul who took advantage of her vulnerability and sympathy. How could she have known that it was all a trap? Instead of repaying her kindness with gratitude, he decided to ruin her entire family. The punishment she received for having cared for him couldn’t have been crueler: It was heart-wrenching to watch her poor, innocent baby grow up and trudge through his ill-fated life one misstep at a time until he finally became old and turned into an exact copy of the beggar himself!