Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party Read online

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wong,” said Mother. “On such a hot day, we don’t want to trouble you.”

  “No trouble! Why don’t you all come up and have ice cream? I made some yesterday after the electricity came back on.” She picked up the big shopping bag. Niu snapped shut Father’s music book, Romantic Songs from Russia, and slipped it back onto the shelf. He could sing half the songs in that book.

  My eyes begged Mother.

  “All right, Ling. You can go for a while. I’m afraid I have to stay here and write up reports for new patients.” Mother straightened my collar. The rash around my neck itched and burned again. “You behave!”

  Whenever Mother and Mrs. Wong were together they reminded me of flowers in our courtyard garden. Mother was like a proud white rose, which stood alone. I was afraid to touch her because of her thorns. Mrs. Wong was fragrant and warm like a red peony, which always welcomed visitors. I wanted to be close to her.

  I glanced at Father, hoping he would go. He loved ice cream almost as much as I did. Father looked up. “No, thank you. I have to go to the hospital soon.”

  Dr. Wong didn’t even look up from the magazine. “You know I don’t care for sweets,” he said as he continued reading. “And I have to go to the hospital, too.”

  I was afraid of Dr. Wong. His eyes never smiled from behind his gold-framed glasses. Unlike Father, he made no jokes. His smell reminded me of small plum flowers with pink petals, the only flower that blossomed in our courtyard on cold snowy days. Behind their backs, I had heard the nurses call Father and Dr. Wong “the two handsome surgeons, Dr. Warm and Dr. Cold.” Though they were very different, Father and Dr. Wong were good friends. Both of them had been Dr. Smith’s favorite students. They would chat in English over tea for hours. Patients came from all over the country seeking their help. One from northern China had traveled two days to see them.

  “Well, let’s go have ice cream, then. Who is coming?” Mrs. Wong looked at me and smiled.

  My eyes followed Niu as he edged toward the door. I moved in front of him and yelled, “You can only beat me in your dreams!” I jabbed him with an elbow as we crowded through the doorway.

  “Ling!” Mother’s scolding chased me up the stairs, along with Niu. “Be a lady!”

  “Niu, you’re losing again!” Mrs. Wong’s tinkling laugh echoed along the staircase.

  Barely beating Niu, I slapped the gold lion knocker on the heavy red door. “Touched base!” Turning back, I smiled proudly at him.

  Niu’s pale face had turned red. His glasses had slipped down on his nose. “Oh, I let you win. You know I am a nice brother.” He pushed back his glasses.

  Niu was four years older than I was. I barely reached his shoulder. All the kids living around the courtyard knew I had a “big brother,” even though he didn’t live with us. Whenever I played with him in the courtyard, I felt safe and protected. Father always said when I was born he was happy to have a daughter, because he already had a son—Niu.

  I thought Niu was the luckiest boy in China. Along with having a real bathtub, a heater, and a refrigerator, his family was the only one I knew who owned a sewing machine.

  “Niu, get the bowls ready. I’ll get the ice cream out in a minute.” Mrs. Wong set the shopping bag on the redwood table in the middle of their living room. “Come here, Ling. Let me show you some fabric.” She led me to the sandalwood dresser beside the bathroom. It was decorated with carvings of a phoenix. The top shelf held layers of blankets. The middle shelf was full of colorful sweaters. She kept all her sewing fabric on the bottom shelf.

  “Which would you like for your new blouse?” She dabbed her forehead with the tip of her white handkerchief.

  I stood there staring at the stack of beautiful fabric, not sure what to do. Should I be polite and say, “No, thank you. It’s too much trouble,” like Mother often did? But I really wanted to have a new blouse.

  “Don’t be shy.” Mrs. Wong took out a stack of fabric and held it in front of me. “Take your pick.”

  I pointed to a thin cotton fabric with the same pattern as her bathroom curtains—little girls in red sun hats sitting on a beach. Behind them were palm trees and sailboats floating on water. Above them were the moon and stars. The pattern reminded me of pictures from Father’s hometown on Hainan Island, far away in southern China.

  Whenever I saw the curtains, I daydreamed about going to a beach in southern China and picking up seashells with Father.

  “All right, my dear. We have enough material to make you a blouse.” She handed me the fabric and put the rest inside the chest.

  I followed Mrs. Wong into the kitchen to her foot-pedal sewing machine. The beautiful black-and-silver machine had been an anniversary present from Dr. Wong. Mrs. Wong was almost as proud of her new machine as she was of her heater. It stood in the corner of the kitchen, where she could look out on the Han River beyond our courtyard. The kitchen’s tall French doors led to a patio.

  The Wongs’ apartment was much bigger than ours. For one thing, the corner of their apartment wasn’t someone else’s home. For another, their bathroom was in their apartment, instead of down the hall, like ours.

  “Can we have ice cream now?” Niu asked. He pulled out the chair next to him for me, drumming his long fingers on the table.

  I was glad he asked first. I couldn’t wait to have the cold ice cream melting in my mouth.

  Sitting next to Niu at the small kitchen table, I could smell the fragrant detergent from his clothes. I studied his face. He had Dr. Wong’s single-lidded eyes and Mrs. Wong’s full lips. Unlike other boys in the courtyard, he always dressed nice and clean.

  “Be patient,” said Mrs. Wong. She walked to the refrigerator by the French doors, twisting up her hair into a bun. I stared at her porcelain neck and wondered why she never got heat rash.

  An evening breeze drifted in from the Han River. It had been a rainy spring, so the river now filled its banks with dark green water. A few blocks down, it joined the wide, light brown Yangtze. The setting sun turned the smooth river into a golden blanket. On the left stood the Han Bridge. Lines of cars and bicycles moved slowly along it. On the right, a row of short buildings crowded together. The three buildings in our courtyard were the tallest in the neighborhood.

  Mrs. Wong told me that our building was the oldest in the courtyard. The other two buildings were built after the Communist revolution, with small apartments.

  From our apartment, the milk trees blocked the view. Niu and I gave that name to the trees around our building because if we picked one of the leaves, white liquid flowed from the stem. I licked it once, and the milk tasted bitter.

  Mrs. Wong brought us two glass bowls on matching saucers. In each bowl sat three scoops of red bean ice cream. Square chocolates rested on the sides of each saucer.

  I took a small bite of the ice cream. Wishing to keep the sweet taste in my mouth as long as I could, I waited until it melted before swallowing it.

  Niu picked up the chocolate and looked at the foreign letters on the plastic candy wrapper.

  “Is this English?” I asked.

  “No, this is obviously German.” He slid his wrapper over to me. “They make good chocolate.”

  “Oh, all chocolate tastes good to me.”

  I took the wrapper and smoothed it out. I didn’t like it when Niu talked to me as if I was a little kid, but I put up with it because he always gave me his wrappers.

  The kids at school prized these colorful plastic wrappers. They were hard to come by, since most candy was wrapped in paper. We used them as bookmarks or placed white paper over them to trace the drawings. After collecting a few, I could trade them for things like postcard portraits of Chairman Mao. I could then trade the postcards for homemade hairpins or even small handkerchiefs with stitched-on flowers.

  A small barge blew its horn, sounding like a mooing cow. I pointed at the river.

  “Where are the boats headed? Are they going to San Francisco?”

  Niu rolled his
eyes in exasperation. “Those are riverboats. They would never make it across the great Pacific.”

  I hummed. I bet Niu learned to talk like that from Dr. Wong.

  Niu stared at the river and took another bite of ice cream. “You need to do better with your geography. Remind me to show you my maps.”

  “Ling is not quite ten yet. She will learn,” interrupted Mrs. Wong.

  Niu frowned at his mother and continued, “I need to show her how far away San Francisco is. She is very confused.” He shook his head. “It’s a lot of work to be her brother.”

  I wanted to tell him I didn’t like maps. I could never find the place I was looking for. But I held back. Out the window, Gardener Zong’s bald head bobbed up and down. He was planting more flowers along the walkway to our building. He always kept the garden tidy.

  Mrs. Wong pulled a chair up behind me and combed my hair. She was gentle. It didn’t hurt the way it often did with Mother.

  “Let’s put your beautiful hair up so you will feel cooler.”

  I nodded and my heart grew. Mother never told me my hair was beautiful. Niu only stared. Did he think I had beautiful hair? Did he think I was beautiful?

  Mrs. Wong made two tight braids and pinned them around my head, just like the French girl from a painting in her living room.

  After ice cream, Niu and I took turns playing his silver harmonica. He could play many songs, even the new revolutionary ones. I couldn’t even play scales. I lost interest.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I wiped off the harmonica with the corner of my blouse before handing it to him.

  “A surgeon,” Niu answered without hesitation. “What about you?”

  For a moment I couldn’t remember my latest plan. I had wanted to be a juice bar saleslady. Then I could sell red bean juice bars to my parents so they wouldn’t have to wait in line. I had also wanted to be a clerk in a fabric store. I’d save all the pretty fabric for Mrs. Wong. And I had wanted to be a ticket lady at a movie theater, so I could let Niu in, even when he had no ticket. But the plan that stayed with me longest was to become a teacher. I’d send home all the kids in my class who had dirty faces and runny noses.

  “I want to be a teacher,” I said. But I didn’t tell him why.

  “Not a bad choice for a girl, I guess,” said Niu. Mrs. Wong gave me an approving smile.

  I wiggled happily in my chair and grinned at Niu. He flipped through the music book for another song to play. He was serious like Dr. Wong. Why couldn’t he be more cheerful like Mrs. Wong?

  Mrs. Wong spread the fabric out on the table and drew yellow lines on it with a piece of chalk. She had designed and sewn Mother’s red wedding dress. Mother looked like a fairy in its high collar, flowing sleeves, and long skirt. Whenever I looked at the wedding picture hanging in my parents’ bedroom, I dreamed that one day I would wear the same dress and marry a surgeon as handsome as Father.

  I watched Niu thoughtfully. His glasses looked funny. I doubted he would ever let me put ponytails in his hair. I decided I had to find someone else to marry.

  Suddenly, I heard shouts and car doors slamming. Niu ran to the patio. Mrs. Wong and I followed.

  “What’s happening?” asked Niu.

  A green jeep stopped in front of the apartment building across the courtyard. Comrade Li and three teenage boys ran inside. We heard doors banging, dishes breaking, and someone screaming.

  “Something bad is happening! Let’s get inside,” urged Mrs. Wong. Niu and I didn’t move, so she stood behind, wrapping her arms around us.

  A few moments later, Comrade Li and the boys pushed someone out of the building.

  “They’re arresting an undercover enemy,” I said. My heart pounded.

  “What undercover enemy? Who is it?” Niu asked.

  I scrunched part of my white skirt into my fist. We couldn’t see the enemy’s face. A white pillowcase with the red words NUMBER 4 HOSPITAL covered it. It must have been a lady. One of her purple slippers was left outside the building. Her head jerked from side to side as Comrade Li and the boys shoved her into the jeep.

  Sweat rolled down my back. Before this, I had seen people being arrested only in revolutionary movies.

  Were they going to torture her, like the evil people did to communist revolutionary heroes? Would she be as brave as the heroes were in the movies and not tell her secrets?

  I heard loud tapping on the Wongs’ fireplace pipe. Running over, I called down, “Yes, Mother.” Our fireplace shared the same pipe as the Wongs’. Since we had no telephone, when the two families needed to talk we tapped on the pipe.

  “Come home now!” Mother’s order echoed up.

  Mrs. Wong and Niu walked me to the door. She kissed me on my cheeks and whispered in my ear as always, “I wish you were my daughter.” My heart burst with the same wish.

  As I waved good-bye to them, I saw tears in her eyes.

  “Bloodsucking Landlord!”

  My heat rash was no longer red and itchy as the milk tree leaves began to turn shades of yellow and orange. Since I had the highest test scores at the end of third grade, Teacher Hui, who taught Chinese literature, had recommended to the school board that I skip fourth grade. I looked forward to starting fifth grade. Even though I would be the youngest in the class, I was sure I’d still be the first one to raise a hand to answer her questions.

  Teacher Hui was slender and shorter than Mother and Mrs. Wong. She had a perm in her shoulder-length hair. She could wear a blue scarf many different ways. She often read my writing to the class as she slowly walked between the rows of desks. Once in a while, her beautiful double-lidded eyes would smile at me. I liked the way she bent her fingers and pushed her curly hair behind her ears.

  On the first day of the new school year, singing birds outside my window woke me early. I slipped into an outfit with the big red and white flowers that matched the one my doll Bao-bao wore. This was one of three matching outfits Mrs. Wong had made for us. Bao-bao was my only doll. Dr. Smith sent her to me one Christmas. Her big eyes closed when I laid her down for a nap. When I patted her tummy, she made happy, gurgling sounds.

  I gave Bao-bao a good-bye kiss and slipped my purple schoolbag strap over my shoulder. Following Mother out the door, I ran my fingers over the big yellow butterfly on the front of my bag.

  Unlike other mornings, I didn’t hear Comrade Li singing. He loved to sing Jiang Qing’s revolutionary operas. We always knew when he was in the bathroom. He sang from when he went in until he flushed the toilet. Father joked that his singing sounded like a strangled ghost. I hated to hear Comrade Li start, because it meant I had to rush to get ready for school.

  Mother and I passed by Comrade Li’s door. It was open wide, but he wasn’t inside. In the middle of the courtyard, he led a group of neighbors in a Zhong, a loyalty dancing class to show their love for Chairman Mao. In front of them hung a giant portrait of Mao in a big wooden frame, neon lights stretched outward from him, as though he were a burning sun.

  Comrade Li sang through a loudspeaker while the group chitchatted.

  Great teacher, great leader,

  You are the sun in all our hearts,

  Dear Chairman Mao.

  Long live Chairman Mao.

  Long live, long live, long live, long live Chairman Mao!

  Neighbors waved their hands above their heads and kicked their feet from side to side. Old ladies in the back gossiped as they danced. Old men puffed on hand-rolled cigarettes, and little boys waved canes and sticks like swords.

  I wondered if the family of the undercover enemy was among them. It had been weeks since the arrest, but no one ever talked about it. When I questioned my parents, Mother gave me her disapproving look. Father said, “It is grown-up business.”

  Comrade Li’s voice broke on the high notes. Young nurses giggled. He continued:

  Long live Chairman Mao!

  Long live, long live Chairman Mao!

  One young doctor sent his slipper flying right past m
e. Red-faced, he ran over to get it back. I wished I could stay to join the class. Then I could show off my ballet turns. But I didn’t want to be late for school.

  When we walked by the milk trees lining the courtyard, I plucked a leaf and licked the sap. Mother glared at me, but I was too happy to care. The milk even tasted a bit sweet today. I was going to be in a class with older kids. None of them would have runny noses.

  Mother said I was old enough to go to school by myself. She and I had made a few practice walks. The compound gate opened onto busy Victory Road. Across that road was the hospital. Between home and school, only Victory Road was wide enough for cars. The rest of my way was through a short, narrow alley. Mother stopped at the left turn to Flower Alley.

  “Come home as soon as morning classes are over,” she said. “And don’t talk to strangers.”

  Nodding cheerfully, I skipped down the alley. In my mind, I practiced introducing myself to my new classmates. “Hello, I’m Ling. I’m glad to meet you. What’s your name?” Or, “Hello, what’s your name? Mine is Ling.”

  I felt grown up now that I could walk to school by myself. During outings with Father to the park or the pastry shop, he had told me about the history of the city. Before Chairman Mao’s Communists took over, many foreigners lived here. They built the wide-paved streets lined with schools, churches, modern hospitals, tall office buildings, and fancy apartment buildings with kitchens and bathrooms. It was as if someone had picked up buildings from Western countries and scattered them all around the city. To celebrate the victory of the Communist Revolution, many of the streets had been renamed, such as Big Liberation Road, Victory Road, Workers and Parents Road, and Red Five Stars Road.

  Along these streets, walls were covered with huge murals. Chairman Mao’s portraits, red flags, and posters of his teachings were in every corner of the city.