Rabbit in the Moon Read online

  Rabbit

  in the moon

  rabbit

  in the moon

  a novel

  Deborah & Joel Shlian

  Oceanview Publishing

  Longboat Key, Florida

  Copyright © 2008 by Deborah and Joel Shlian

  first edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-933515-14-4

  Published in the United States by Oceanview Publishing,

  Longboat Key, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  printed in the United States of America

  For Hua-Qi, our Chinese “daughter”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We would like to express our very grateful thanks to my dear Shanghainese friends Hao Cheng, Hua Qi Han and Qing, and Qing Nan Zhou whose personal experiences and special understanding of life in China today have greatly contributed to the factual contents of this book; to Chu Yi Wong who served as a model for Lili and tirelessly read and reread the manuscript.

  There are others still in China who we will have to thank anonymously for fear that official knowledge of their help might cause reprisals. Although almost two decades have passed since the massacre at Tiananmen Square, many of those involved in the student movement still have legitimate concerns for their own safety or for that of their families. Nevertheless, we are indebted to each of them and appreciate their candid exchange of ideas and experiences.

  Thanks also go to Bob and Pat Gussin, Susan Greger, Maryglenn McCombs, and Susan Hayes from Oceanview who helped to make this book happen. And to George Foster for the beautiful book jacket.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Is mankind ready for a scientific breakthrough that could double the average lifespan? Dr. Cheng’s obsession to find the secret puts the doctor, his granddaughter, and the future of the entire world in jeopardy.

  The backdrop for Rabbit in the Moon is the seven weeks in 1989 between the April rise of the Student Democracy movement and its fall with the Tiananmen Square massacre in June. We chose this period for two reasons.

  First, it was dramatic. Anyone who read the newspapers or watched CNN at the time can hardly forget the image of the young man holding up his arm to stop the tank from rolling over him.

  The second reason for choosing this backdrop is because after our first trip to China in 1985, we returned to Los Angeles and became a host family for students from China studying at UCLA. During the weeks leading up to Tiananmen in 1989, many of those students communicated with friends and family back in China. From their perspective, the conflict was a generational struggle between the very old leaders, many of whom marched with Mao and who were desperate to hang onto power, and the younger generation, anxious for reforms. We expanded on this generational theme by looking at how young versus old might view the acquisition of a longevity elixir, not only in China, but also in the United States and in Korea.

  Writing a story with an historical backdrop requires accuracy. It was difficult, however, to know what was happening in the highest level of government at the time. The release of the Tiananmen Papers—secret documents smuggled out of China —reveal how the authorities reached their decision leading to the final confrontation. They formed the basis for assumptions we made in writing the novel. For example, there is a pivotal scene in the book in which three of the leaders meet with Deng Xiaoping, warning that the students threaten his leadership and convincing him to crack down on them. Deng decides to write an editorial for the People’s Daily (which he, in fact, did), accusing the students of creating “turmoil.” Deng’s editorial was really a signal that the hard-liners were in control because it alluded to the “ten years of turmoil” that was the Cultural Revolution. Unfortunately, the students did not appreciate the significance of the message. They did not know that behind the scenes the moderate Zhao Ziyang had been ousted. They began a hunger strike, announcing that they would not leave Tiananmen Square until the editorial was recanted, As a result, any opportunity for defusing the situation disappeared. And as we know, on June 4, tragically, hundreds, perhaps thousands, were killed.

  Rabbit

  in the moon

  THE OLD DUST

  The living is a passing traveler;

  The dead, a man come home.

  One brief journey betwixt heaven and earth,

  Then, alas! we are the same old dust of ten thousand ages.

  The rabbit in the moon pounds the medicine in vain;

  Fu-sang, the tree of immortality,

  has crumbled to kindling wood.

  Man dies, his white bones are dumb without a word

  When the green pines feel the coming of the spring.

  Looking back, I sigh;

  Looking before, I sigh again.

  What is there to prize in the life’s vaporous glory?

  Li Po (A.D. 701–762)

  Translated by Shigeyoshi Obata

  According to Chinese folklore, there is a rabbit in the moon,

  which is pounding the elixir of life.

  PROLOGUE

  May 3, 1949

  Shanghai, China

  It is Chinese to hope.

  And yet, as the child slipped her hand into his, he knew it might be for the last time. Shanghai was a city on edge. Nervous gossip and anxious speculation electrified the air. Dr. Ni-Fu Cheng felt the growing tension even in the usual lunchtime banter between his tenured colleagues at the Institute. Who could predict which way the political winds would blow?

  For three days the radio screamed of valiant Nationalist soldiers fighting in the southern cities. North China’s Daily News countered with unqualified praise for the great army of shoeless peasants crossing the Yangtse River to capture Nanking. Would Chiang Kai-chek be forced to retreat? Would the foreign devils finally be driven from Shanghai forever? Would the People’s Liberation Army fulfill the promise of a new China? Maybe, Ni-Fu thought. But he couldn’t take a chance — not with his daughter, Su-Wei. She was all that was left of his family. She had to live.

  His friend Denton Browning had managed to procure an evacuation card for the child, warning him to get out as well. “It’s not safe, old chap.” But Ni-Fu couldn’t leave Shanghai. Not yet.

  Hoping to melt into the predawn shadows, Ni-Fu urged the ten-year-old along the wide boulevard of the Bund toward the freighters docked at the edge of the Huangpu River. He’d let the child linger too long saying good-bye to her amah. They’d have to hurry not to miss the ship.

  A hot sea breeze, thick from humidity even the night’s rain could not abate, exacerbated their already ragged breathing. He scanned the river, searching past barges, lighters, sampans, godowns, and junks until he spotted the rust-streaked New Star at the far end of the dock. Opposite, Pudong was shrouded in early morning mist, its smoking factory chimneys resembling silent sea wraiths with gently undulating hair.

  A plaintive cry arose from the little girl. “I’m tired, Father.” Her cheeks were wet with perspiration.

  “Just a little more, child. We’re nearly there.” Ni-Fu refused to stop until his daughter was safely aboard the freighter.

  The air was rich and heavy with the familiar sounds and smells of the quayside: rickshaw-pulling hawkers beckon
ing to customers, gangs of grunting, sweating coolies shouldering giant loads balanced on springy bamboo poles, sweet incense smoking and food cooking on charcoal braziers. Ni-Fu watched spirited peasants from the countryside hustle potatoes and chickens. Only their cardboard signs with scribbled prices inflating a dozen times each day spoiled the ordinariness of the scene.

  As always, clusters of beggars, their matted hair and bare feet blackened with grime, slept silently by the side of the road like stray cats. They’d been there under the British, the Japanese, and the Guomindang. Passing the sleeping figures, Ni-Fu wondered if they’d still be there now that Mao was so close to Shanghai.

  The image reflected in a shop window startled him. Only thirty-five, yet his jet black hair was pebbled with silver. He sighed. Too much had happened too quickly. In less than a week he’d lost his wife, his newborn son, and his younger brother. Too soon to feel the depth of his pain.

  A hand tapped Ni-Fu’s shoulder. Turning quickly, he was relieved to see his friend.

  “You’re late, old chap.” Browning smiled at Su-Wei. “Thought you changed your mind.”

  Ni-Fu shook his head. “I have no choice.” He spoke with an acquired Oxford accent.

  Browning nodded. “Nor I. The white man’s Chinese domain is no more.” He mopped the moisture from his brow with a silk handkerchief. “Bloody hot — even for May. Hardly a breath of air.”

  Ni-Fu offered his friend an envelope filled with yuan. “For your kindness.”

  “Nonsense,” Browning responded, refusing compensation. “What I’ve learned can never be repaid. You’re a great doctor and teacher.”

  “What will you do now, Denton?”

  “Me? I was meant to be an English country doctor. I’ll set up practice in Surrey, find a wife, have kids, and spend my weekends tending a vegetable garden. I’ll become famous for the biggest tomatoes in the county.” He laughed at the thought, then turned serious again: “I only wish we could have tested your theories in the laboratory.”

  Ni-Fu shrugged.

  Two long blasts erupted from the freighter stacks.

  Browning grabbed his leather valise and reached for Su-Wei’s hand. “We’d better board or we’ll miss the boat.”

  Su-Wei began to weep. Although she knew a little English, she spoke in Chinese. “I don’t want to leave you, Father. Please don’t make me go.”

  Fearing he might never see her again, Ni-Fu stared at his child as if to burn her image into his memory. Lovely Su-Wei. As beautiful as her name, which meant poem and flower. The Chinese in him wondered if the geomancer hadn’t been right after all: “You must call your beautiful child ‘ugly’ or the Gods will punish you for the sin of pride.” But the scientist in Ni-Fu refused to believe in feng shui or joss or any of that superstitious hogwash. He feigned a smile for his daughter: “You’ll be safe in America.”

  “Don’t worry, old man. Once we get to Hong Kong, I’ll put her on the first boat to San Francisco, and wire your sister to meet her.” Browning patted Ni-Fu’s arm. “She’ll be fine.”

  “Who will care for you if I leave?” Su-Wei asked solemnly, her eyes glistening.

  Ni-Fu looked at this grave, almond-eyed child forced to grow up so quickly. He yearned to tell her he was on the verge of a great discovery, the key to a secret that would free mankind forever. But he knew she was too young to understand and he didn’t dare let Browning know that he’d already begun testing his theory.

  Instead he pulled a jade locket on a gold chain from his pocket and fastened it around her neck. Inside he’d placed a picture of his wife so the child would not forget. “Do you know what this means?” he asked, pointing to the gold Chinese letters.

  “Shou? It means long life,” said the child, wiping a tear that had trickled down her cheek.

  Ni-Fu folded his arms around his little daughter and held her close. “Wear this always and never forget that you are Chinese,” he whispered in his native tongue. “Someday you will return to your country and we will be together again.” Tenderly, he kissed the child good-bye.

  Browning took Su-Wei’s hand. “I’m afraid we must go. Take care, my friend. God knows what these Communist buggers will do when they take over.”

  Ni-Fu stood at the dock, shading his eyes against the early morning glare as he watched his small daughter slowly disappear up the gangplank.

  Moments later she stood at the railing next to Browning. Ni-Fu waved. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, knowing they couldn’t hear over the din of the quayside.

  Another whistle and slowly the boat edged from the dock, its screws churning the brown water into a scummy froth. He willed back tears, though his heart ached. Don’t worry, he thought. I am the rabbit in the moon. No one will hurt me. Not as long as I can find the secret of shou.

  BOOK ONE

  THE PRESENT

  The now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

  —James Joyce, Ulysses II

  CHAPTER ONE

  January 1989

  Beijing, China

  “Idiots! A simple task. I send two young soldiers to extract information from a helpless old man. What could be easier? Yet they return saying he refuses to cooperate? I tell you, comrades, I don’t know what’s become of this younger generation. They’re not made of the same stuff as the three of us. They’re weaker. Softer.”

  To punctuate his point, Foreign Minister Lin took a deep drag on his cigarette, savored the unfiltered tobacco, then gathered a bolus of saliva in his mouth and launched it, aiming it into the spittoon near his desk.

  The two men in the overstuffed chairs facing him nodded.

  “You are right, Comrade Lin,” agreed General Pei-Jun Tong. “Deng’s open door policies cause our children to forget our sufferings. His reforms bring spiritual pollution and immoral behavior. Instead of shuo ku, my son wants only to talk of his new business ventures with the West. He has no interest in hearing about the evil social conditions before the revolution. ‘Ziyou shichang. Free markets.’ ” The general shook his head. “Imagine owning his own factory. Thank goodness old Mao is not here to see the death of his dream for China.”

  “Deng says it does not matter whether the good cat is black or white, as long as it catches mice,” Intelligence Officer Peng Han reminded his fellow Long Marchers. All three old men had accompanied Mao on that eight thousand-mile epic trek through China in 1934.

  Foreign Minister Lin jumped up from behind his desk with the furious energy of a man thirty years his junior. His fist slammed the desk, scattering papers and upsetting the teacup perched on the edge. “Of course it matters! We sacrificed everything for the Party and our country. If we lose our ideals now, we are no better than those foreign devils!”

  A girl in pigtails and a white jacket entered carrying a thermos of boiling water. Soundlessly, she refilled the foreign minister’s teacup and offered some to his guests.

  The men waited for her to leave before continuing.

  “I couldn’t agree more, Comrade Lin,” Han said. “Our numbers have dwindled. Deng has stripped the Party of most old allies. In my section of the Intelligence branch few of us remain.” He sipped his tea. “Ironically, it was the wave of student protests as much as our work behind the scenes that helped discredit Hu Yaobang last year.”

  The foreign minister shook his head. “You’re too hard on yourself, old friend. He would never have been ousted without you.” All three understood it was political suicide to openly disagree with Deng’s economic reforms. Instead, they’d had to clandestinely destroy reformers like Hu Yaobang.

  “Peng Han is right about one thing. It’s more difficult than ever to keep things as they were,” General Tong lamented. “Deng forgets the bedrock of Mao’s philosophy: political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” The old soldier rubbed his balding temple. “He slashed the army’s ranks by a million, and with so many of the old Marxists retired, we have fewer seats on the Politburo.”

  “Precisely why we’re
meeting today.” Lin fingered the collar of his crisp gray cotton Zhongshan tunic. Foreigners knew it as the “Mao jacket” though it was actually introduced by Sun Yat-Sen shortly after founding the Republic of China in 1912. When Mao later adopted it as his preferred uniform, a billion people dutifully followed his lead. Only in the last few years had many resumed wearing Western styles, especially the young. To Lin, who clung to the old way of dress with the same tenacity with which he clung to the old way of thought, it was a sensible, functional garment — cheap fabric, comfortable cut.

  He pulled the jacket over his matching slacks. “Thank goodness the new head of the Xi’an Institute remains loyal. With Professor Cheng’s discovery we will regain control of the Party.” He cleared his throat with a noisy flourish, then spewed another frothy mouthful into the spittoon. “We must get him to talk.”

  “I agree,” Han replied, tugging his own jacket. Although all three men ate far more than the fifteen hundred or so calories on which the average Chinese managed to exist, only Peng Han’s belly rippled under his Mao suit. “But torture is not the way. If, as he claims, there is no written record of his research, we need him alive and we need his cooperation.”

  “Any word from the young man you set up as lab assistant?”

  “Chi-Wen Zhou is slowly gaining the professor’s trust.”

  “It’s been months,” the general reminded.

  “Such things take time. After all, he’s not family.”

  The foreign minister interrupted, “What about relatives?”

  Han took a deep breath and opened the file he’d brought with him. “Dr. Cheng’s wife and son died in childbirth. His brother was killed fighting with Chiang Kai-chek. One daughter, Su-Wei, escaped to the United States before Liberation.”