Born of One Root

By Ye Guangqin

Translated by Zhao Yanhua & Robin Gilbank

Proofread by Hu Zongfeng

The melody ended with a protracted sigh, lamenting the brevity of the night. We leaned against the carved railing, as the mist shrouded the reeds, occluding the path to the distant horizon. Left alone with our slender shadows, the moonlight reflected off the coral-colored trees, while the desolate canopy was choired with plaintive fall cicadas and the crisp sound of dropping leaves echoed mournfully. We gazed at each other with tear-beaded eyes, persevering in our sorrow. When would our two hearts, separated by distance, ever be reunited in secret joy?

The melodious pan flute played a section entitled Dream Love from The Courtyard Full of Fragrance, which permeated the cool night. The delicate and graceful melodies formed a bulwark against the noise outside, making the world as tranquil as water. In the courtyard, the shadows of the trees danced in the breeze. At first glance, the yard seemed no different from how it had been years ago: the pink wall on the east side of the yard was still standing, and so too was the purple wisteria on the west. The pink wall was riddled with cracks and the purple wisteria grew haphazardly, exposing the undeniable dilapidation under the moonlight.

The light in the reception hall was on, and the sound of the pan flute drifted inside, causing those present to feel as if they had been cut adrift from the outside world for ages. However, the small kitchen, ingeniously rebuilt by the veranda, and the aroma of minced meat and soybean sauce wafting over added a playful note of romance to the tune of The Courtyard Full of Fragrance, which belongs to the melody of Northern Chinese opera. Such tunes are smooth and graceful, featuring few rises and falls. But on that day, the flute was being played obscurely and hurriedly, with the notes all disordered. It sounded like a restless fox and a rabbit and simultaneously had the intermittent and complex character of a rainstorm, only with greater impetuosity.

Carrying my luggage, I walked around the clayey platform that was once covered with peonies but which had been turned into a cesspool, then squeezed through the iron wires hung with drying clothes of all colors, and headed towards the light. The door of the reception room remained ajar, and the long-lost scent seeped through the crack of the door, lingering in every corner of the household. That familiar scent, persistent and stubborn despite the passage of time and the vicissitudes of the world, infused everything and everyone who entered. Even though I was attired in the clothes of 1990s, with the maxims of “building socialism with Chinese characteristics” buzzing through my mind beforehand, the moment I stepped into this courtyard where the flute music mingled with the moonlight, the heat suddenly dissipated, and my tumultuous thoughts seemed to solidify into static symbols. These faded and retreated from my mind to be replaced by a gentle melancholy and a profound solemnity. I marveled at how swiftly my role had shifted, even at how the decades of wandering and returning, returning and wandering, had barely altered me amid the eroding forces of time and the weather ... I stood by the door for a long while, gazing at the flautist seated on the embroidered stool, the vast desk for painting positioned behind him, together with the whitewashed walls, and the purple wisteria vines. When I was a girl, he would play and paint here, and now he remained, just as he always had been. How many years had passed!

When I called out for “Old Seven,” the sound of the flute suddenly ceased. My seventh eldest brother, Shunquan, turned around and caught sight of me, asking, “Oh, is it Shunming?” I replied in the affirmative and walked over to sit in the chair opposite him. Shunquan had aged since I last saw him. Wrinkles had crept across his skin, and not a single strand of black could be found among his thinning hair. Nevertheless, his tall, slender figure remained erect, and his demeanor continued to be imbued with elegance and every gesture had poise. He took after his mother in appearance. The sprawling mansion, occupying half a street with nearly three hundred rooms, and the vast cemetery with over a hundred towering gingko trees outside the East Gate of Beijing, had both been bequeathed to future generations by our grandfather. As far back as I could remember, the property had already dwindled to almost nothing. Later on, the cataclysm of the Cultural Revolution reduced us to destitution, leaving us with bare walls and making even procuring basic meals a struggle. Fortunately, the policies instituted later on, coupled with the reparation of confiscated properties and items, allowed us to retain these five halls and this neglected little courtyard. In the past, this place was but a corner of the garden, and its survival could be attributed to the fact that my mother and Shunquan had never forsaken it as their home. The principal house and courtyard to the front had been demolished long ago and replaced with the residential buildings of a certain public institution, while the vermilion gate and exquisite stone lions had vanished without a trace.

Shunquan was thirty-five years older than me. He influenced my life from the moment I was born in this courtyard till when I left home at the age of twenty. During the Cultural Revolution, almost none of my brothers escaped the ordeal. Shunquan, too, suffered the indignity of having his hair shaved into a half-bald yin-yang pattern and being paraded down the streets in public humiliation. I followed him as loyally as a dog and knew in my heart the tremendous pressure exerted upon him by the tall hat and the wooden placard, and the sting of the whip. I did so for no other reason than him being my brother, a man incapable of hurting others, who never put up his guard against the duplicitous. He treated everyone with kindness, humility, respect, restraint, and generosity, exhibiting an innocent childlike sincerity even towards the Red Guards who consigned to the flames his calligraphy and paintings. He once humbly asked if they could spare the works by his friends such as Zhang Daqian, Pu Xinyi, and Xu Beihong and burn his pieces instead. Upon being told it was impossible, he acquiesced, saying he could still find solace in the fact that his mediocre works could be incinerated into fluttering butterflies just like those masterpieces. Every night, Shunquan would play the flute, even when forced to wear the yin-yang hairstyle. Mostly he chose tunes from Dream Love by the Qing Dynasty dramatist Zhang Jian. It included lyrics like ‘When will our separated hearts unite in secret joy?’ Upon hearing the sound of the pan flute, Mother would shake her head and sigh, surmising that Shunquan was missing Liu Simi again.

Shunquan was delighted at my return. He inquired about whether there had been snowfall in the Northwest yet and if there were still camels in Yulin. I answered his questions one by one. Under the dim light, we two siblings were reunited. The small talk between us was spare but imbued with a profound affection. After a lengthy chat rife with trivialities, Shunquan mentioned that Shunwu had returned, having traveled from Taiwan via Hong Kong and would stay in Beijing for only three days. I asked if he had brought his wife with him. Shunquan merely grunted as if to say “yes.”

Had the Qing Dynasty not been overthrown, our eldest brother Shunwu would have been the successor to the noble title of the family. And yet, this eldest son had rebelled at an early age, leaving home in the late 1920s to join the Kuomintang and later the Military Intelligence Agency, going on to become a powerful figure in Nationalist military circles. His hands were stained with the blood of Communists and progressives. Few outside knew of his boyhood name, Shunwu, which might still be on record in the archives, though his notorious “public name” was never uttered within our family. During the Cultural Revolution, it was his association with Shunwu that caused Shunquan the most suffering, as the former was actively involved in the “Anti-Communist Salvation League” in Taiwan at the time.

On detecting how my mind was weighted down with misgivings, Shunquan added that he had only learned about it through a phone call from the government. He thought our eldest brother would come back to visit the yard, but he apparently had no intention of doing so. It had been over fifty years since he left this place never to return. Shunquan pointed out that this time, only a few people knew about his visit, and he didn’t want to attract attention from others.

“It stands to reason,” I agreed. “That he mustn’t want to make himself conspicuous. Jin Shunwu’s sins run deep and are infamous. This time, the government already did him a huge favor by allowing him to return. He surely wouldn’t have the face to meet up with friends and relatives from home, let alone be prepared to bear the shame of coming into the presence of his dead parents. Surely he means to return on the sly without so much as giving a single glance at the old yard.”

Shunquan didn’t pick up on what I had said, such words being anathema if spoken out loud by a man full of filial piety and fraternal love.

“I asked you to come back from the Northwest for two reasons,” Shunquan explained. “First off, you should come and meet Shunwu. He’s our eldest brother after all, and as the youngest, you should grasp the initiative. Secondly, it’s time to open that secret box. Now that only the three of us from the ‘Shun’ generation of the Jin family are left, if we don’t open it now, there may never be another chance.”

The box to which Shunquan referred was a small casket discovered in a hidden cavity in the wall when the house in the west courtyard was being demolished in 1998. At that time, Shunquan wrote to me, observing that the box had been sealed in there by our father in 1937, the year he returned from France to rebuild the west courtyard. No one knew what the contents were, but now that it had been found, the time had come to find out. The box had been kept in Shunquan’s possession, his intention being to open it at an appropriate moment. Upon my arrival this time, he once again mentioned the artifact and rose to retrieve the phoebe wood casket inlaid with mother-of-pearl out of a cabinet. After wiping the surface with a cloth, he placed the box under the lamp and it immediately shone with a radiant glow. Even though the delicate brass lock had rusted green, it remained firmly sealed to the hasp.

“While Shunwu, you and I are all here in Beijing, we should open it,” Shunquan said. “Then, I’ll have fulfilled my duty to you all.”

Shunquan’s wife, Liying and his daughter Qingqing came in from the kitchen with dishes in their hands. They were surprised to see me sitting at the table. Liying put down the bowls and asked, “How did you slip back so quietly? Qingqing went to the station in the afternoon but couldn’t find you. We thought you were taking the train tomorrow."

“I didn’t have much luggage,” I replied. “So there was no need to pick me up. Besides, I know my way home.”

“Auntie Papa looks even younger now,” said Qingqing. “Look at my ma, she’s already an old lady. She’s too shy to wear flowery clothes. Auntie is much younger than her.”

Despite being a modern-day youngster, Qingqing still retained the habit of calling me “Auntie Papa.” That was probably down to her father’s influence. Manchu people often masculinize the titles of senior female family members as a sign of respect, just as the Emperor Guangxu addressed the Empress Dowager Cixi as “Papa Dearest.” Shunquan must have often talked about me to his daughter, so I naturally became “Auntie Papa” to her.

Liying wanted to go to the kitchen to prepare two more dishes, but I stopped her. Noodles with fried bean paste was sufficient. She then consulted her husband, and Shunquan pointed out, “Shunming is a member of our family. We don’t need to cook extra dishes for her sake. There’s pickled sweet and sour cabbage in the jar. We can serve that. It’s something she can’t taste anywhere outside.” I asked who made the sweet and sour cabbage, and Shunquan admitted that he did. He wore the proud and self-satisfied expression of a child.

Sweet and sour cabbage is a preserved delicacy the recipe for which has been passed down through our family for three or four generations. We sliced the cabbage hearts into diamonds and marinated them together with red carrots carved into the shape of plum blossoms, using white sugar and premium-quality white vinegar. The vegetables were sealed in jars and taken out as required. When serving it, we added a garnish of fresh green coriander. With its red, green, and white colors, the dish was beautiful to behold, and the sweet and sour flavors of the pickle were delectable.

The four of us sat around the light, enjoying our meal. Simple as the fare was, the tableware appeared exquisite, this being the sole vestige of Shunquan’s aristocratic past. Liying treated me with politeness tinged with reserve. Her every utterance was punctuated with the formal pronunciation of “you” and “your” which made me feel quite uneasy.

Liying, who was formerly a worker at the stocking factory in the eastern district, had since retired and stayed at home. Her appearance was unremarkable and slightly dumpy. Her education did not exceed primary school level. When she married Shunquan, my seventh brother, I was still in Beijing. Owing to the antics of my third and fourth brothers, the wedding feast had to be held at Liying’s maternal home in Chuanban Alley instead of our own residence. Even then, my third and fourth brothers’ quarreling resulted in the flask her family used as a hot water bottle being shattered. My mother was aware that Shunquan was deeply dissatisfied and reluctant to accept this marriage, but ultimately, he yielded to circumstances and fulfilled his filial duty. Despite the vast difference in age between Liying and Shunquan, she was content and good-natured. She not only served my mother diligently, with a devotion that surpassed merely offering necessary rice and water and fanning her in summer and keeping the bed warm in winter, but also took care of Shunquan with tenderness and diligence. Whenever I brought to mind her virtues, my heart overflowed with gratitude and I found myself moved to tears.

After my mother’s death, Qingqing was born, and Shunquan was by then nearly sixty. Shunquan cherished his daughter dearly, pampered her excessively, and often held her on his lap while painting, with his brush following the orders of his girl. When Qingqing said the rooster under the Japanese banana tree should carry a chick on his back, the bird, which was standing on the rock and stretching out his neck to crow, immediately tucked in his plumage and proceeded to balance a little hatchling on his back. He now pecked at the ground, transforming this into the image of a hero’s bravery being tempered by paternal tenderness. When Qingqing declared that the old man crossing the bridge should sit in a tree eating peaches, the elderly gentleman with a cane and robe, “old in years yet young at heart,” discarded his walking stick and scaled the trunk with agility ...

After the “Third Plenary Session,” Shunquan’s life seemed calm and leisurely. In his own words, he was “Sitting by the stove, brewing fragrant tea, painting verdant mountains, tracing exquisite calligraphy. Here was contentment and happiness of a very personal kind.” However, behind the talk of “contentment and happiness” I could still sense the forlornness in his heart and the emptiness of his emotions. At the dinner table right now, I once again perceived from the way that Liying slurped and chewed noodles loudly there was a gap and a barrier between the couple. This gap was not something that could be bridged in a single generation.

I had long been away from the family home and so could relinquish some of its reserve and habits. For Old Seven, Shunquan, it would be impossible to do the same. Shunquan had never left this home, nor ventured out of this atmosphere, and even his social interactions were confined to his extremely limited circle of calligraphy and painting enthusiasts.

Shunquan was rather knowledgeable about calligraphy and art, with a particular proficiency in meticulous and colorful painting. He often said that painting should steer clear of six types of flaws: the first was vulgarity, like a village girl applying makeup; the second was craftsmanship, being too skillful but lacking in charm; the third was aggression, setting out to show off one’s brushwork too conspicuously; the fourth was roughness, being overly careless and lacking in refinement; the fifth was femininity, being too delicate and lacking in strength; and the sixth was crassness, being ignorant and vulgar.

According to professional artists, Shunquan’s paintings followed the style of Castiglione yet possessed a more robust and graceful quality. Both in composition and palette alike, they demonstrated exceptional talent and skill. When Xu Beihong first established the National Art School in Peiping, he invited Shunquan to assist him. That greatly enhanced the reputation of Seventh Elder Brother Jin (Jin Shunquan) in the ancient city. People flocked to seek out his paintings, and once acquired, they treasured them like precious jade. Collectors prized Shunquan’s paintings as artifacts. Still, over time, they gradually faded from people’s memories. His tragedy lay in his inability to break free from himself and in limiting himself to the small family circle. Zhang Daqian, Xu Beihong, and even Pu Xinyu, a descendant of Prince Gong - known as the royal painter - all traveled abroad and explored the landscapes of China, grasping the essence of nature. Pu Xinyu, moreover, studied in Germany and earned two doctorates. Shunquan, on the other hand, isolated himself from society and his secluded life as a painter within an ivory tower blinkered his vision, painting style, and ambition, preventing him from realizing significant progress. In the end, he was recognized as no more than an excellent “literati painter.”

After dinner, Qingqing and I chatted in her room. Qingqing asked me to guess what treasures might be hidden in her father’s small box. I said it must be gold bars, diamonds, or something similar. “My dad would have become rich if that was the case,” said Qingqing. “But this box is not that heavy, and there’s no rattle when you shake it, so it doesn’t seem to contain those things you mentioned.”

“Then it must be a will, your grandfather’s will.”

“I hope it’s not a will. Think about it. The box was bricked into the wall in the 30th year of the Republic of China and you were not born at that time. Even if there’s something in the will, you won’t be a beneficiary!”

This was not something that I had thought of before. I couldn’t help but admire the shrewdness of the teenage girl. This youngster had issued a deft warning. I even suspected that our conversation about the small box that night was deliberately designed by her and her mother to subtly goad me and place me in an awkward position. This meticulous calculation was silly and regretful, as it suggested that Liying’s concern and dependence demonstrated during hard times had become a memory that would never return.

I glanced towards Qingqing, who save for having the complexion of a Jin resembled her mother in every way, and bore none of the characteristics of this family. I thought that according to the generational order, she should have a name including the character “Yan.” So how come she was given that odd name “Qingqing”? When I asked who decided on it, she replied it was her maternal grandmother and also mentioned her uncles, aunts, and the whole family living in Chuanban Alley. Qingqing said that those uncles came here every day to try and persuade her father to open the box, but he stubbornly protected it, not allowing them to unseal or even touch it. Her father insisted that there was still her eldest uncle and aunt in the family, and the box wouldn’t be opened until all three of them were present. He would wait for days, months and years for the coming of the remaining two.

“Don’t you think my dad is silly?” asked Qingqing. I was touched by her words and lifted the door curtain to look at Shunquan in the next room. He had already climbed into his bed. After all, he was nearly eighty years old. Could he really wait another decade? 

As he saw me looking in his direction, Shunquan advised me to “Go to bed and rest early. We will go to the Palace Hotel to visit Shunwu and it’ll be the first time you two have met.” I said that Shunwu probably wouldn’t know who I was. Shunquan thought for a moment and answered that that may be true.

I harbored a dislike for the eldest brother who I had never seen before. Mother once said that he was tall and strong, seldom smiled and was pretty glacial towards people. On seeing his photo in military dress published in the newspaper, his mother was dissatisfied with the name “Shunwu.” As “wu” means sword in Chinese, that implied that he was destined to ride horses and wield blades all his life. If she had had her way he would have been named “Shunfang”, the “fang” meaning the “pillar of a household”. In this case he may have been destined to become the head of a noble family. My third sister, Shunyu, born of the same mother, Gvwalgiya Hala, was an underground member of the Communist Party. In 1947, Chiang Kai-shek issued an order calling for the “suppression of rebels” and arrested a swathe of communists and progressives, including Shunyu. My father managed to get in touch with Shunwu, who was a participant in the purge and asked him out of fraternal love to ensure that his sister Shunwu remain protected. Shunwu refused his father’s request as he said he had turned his back on his biological family the day he joined the army. Shunyu, in his mind, had brought her suffering upon herself. There were many younger siblings in our family and they should learn from her error. Shunwu’s lack of concern left Shunyu to be apprehended just outside of Desheng Gate. She was then secretly executed. Her remains were not discovered until after the liberation, and were duly reburied. During that “suppression of rebels”, many lost their lives. In the month of October alone, more than two thousand people were put to death in cities such as Shanghai, Peiping and Guangzhou ...

If Shunwu’s attitude towards Shunyu embodied the principle of military order trumping blood ties and filial duty, then quite apart from those whose deaths were directly or indirectly his responsibility, there was the trouble he brought upon Shunquan, my Old Seven. That indicted this so-called “publicly-spirited” individual as being in fact a selfish and shameless villain.

Liu Simi was an actress in contemporary theater in 1940s Beijing and admired Shunquan’s painting and personality. Hence, she came to learn from him and be his female student. Shuanquan taught her in the rear garden, where he not only instructed her to study and copy ancient paintings but also encouraged her to observe and paint from nature. He always picked seasonal flowers in the garden and arranged them in vases on the desk, teaching her to learn from everything in the world and highlight the vitality of living things. From observing every petal and every bud, the essence could be understood.

Liu Simi followed her teacher’s instructions assiduously and in addition to observing the cut flowers, she also devoted so much appreciation to the big red “double-eared” vase. She would play with it over and over again and be reluctant to put the vessel down. The vase was a specimen of Jun porcelain, one of the Five Famous Types of Porcelain from the Song Dynasty. Wares of this ilk were said to possess a miraculous property, summarized as “apply a single color of glaze, remove a rainbow from the kiln.” As it was tricky to fire and had a low rate of success, it was said that “gold has its price, but such porcelain is priceless.” This particular double-eared vase was a royal gift from the palace in the Xianfeng era (1851-61). It possessed an antique elegance and crystal clarity that was once praised as being as “red as the breaking dawn” and hailed as a treasure among porcelain.

Later, upon noticing Simi’s profound affection for the vase, Shunquan generously presented it to her, sparking quite a commotion within the family. That, however, is a story for another occasion. Besides her intelligence and beauty, Liu Simi possessed a melodious voice and excelled at singing Kunqu Opera. During the painting lessons, she often sang in the flower hall, performing arias from Fang Chengpei’s Leifeng Pagoda, Wu Me’s Wind Cave Mountain, and most frequently of all, Zhang Jian’s Dream Love. Shunquan accompanied her on the flute, the voice and music intertwining like the wind and the phoenix, her clear throat singing sweetly and his instrument echoing softly. Their melodies floated about among the rockeries and flower gardens. The air was filled with the fragrance of the lotus. The freshness of the snow lotus soothed the heart, and with a song so enchanting, it felt as if they had transcended reality. The painter’s mind was no longer on her painting; the singer’s mind was no longer on his song. Everything had been transformed into the lingering rain and condensed clouds of a mystical encounter on Mount Wu.

My family didn’t intervene in Shunquan’s relationship with Simi, as it was seen as romantic for a prince to have a secret assignation with a beautiful woman and for a scholar to harbor affection for a fair lady. That being said, Liu Simi was not a girl who sang drum ballads on a bridge while moonlighting as a “door ajar” courtesan, nor was she a timid girl who trilled folk songs and begged for money with a wicker basket in a small venue. She was a star who performed in caviled dramas and films. Her relationship with Shunquan was that of a formal courtship between a man and a woman, not occasional horseplay or flirting. When Shunquan aired his idea to become engaged to Simi, the first one to express disapproval was Shunquan’s mother, my father’s second wife. She deemed that for a man from a royal scion to marry Liu Simi, an actress, was a violation of rules and etiquette. That was to be absolutely forbidden. Shunquan fell down on his knees before his mother and explained that Simi was an artist not a woman of the night. His mother didn’t listen to him and maintained, “When all’s said and done, a girl who warbles at the top of her voice in people’s yards is lacking in decorum and flouts the rules for women. Don’t mention this kind of thing anymore.” Shunquan was at a loss and so approached my mother - our father’s third wife - for help.

Without doubt “Shunwu returning with his wife” touched Shunquan. That much could be inferred from the bitter melodies he played on the flute. I couldn’t imagine the scene of lovers who had been separated for many years meeting up again in their old age. Nor could I picture the situation in which long-separated brothers were suddenly reunited.

We made an appointment to meet at ten o’clock at the Palace Hotel. Qingqing’s two uncles and youngest aunt had already come at half past seven. Her elder uncle drove a black “Imperial Crown,” pointing out that his leader didn’t need the car that morning. Liying and her sister tried on clothes with her aunt in the bedroom after breakfast. They were in there for a long time. Shunquan was busy painting his “cherry blossoms and wren” pictures. The two uncles were sipping scented tea and smoking in the living room. They said that this area would be demolished within the year, in spite of the flower hall being so old. The carved hardwood partition screens inside were choice and exquisite handicrafts and should be dismantled and sold in advance to save them from destruction. They also said that the square bricks soaked in tung oil were a rarity nowadays in Beijing and ought to be dealt with first. Their conversation made me unhappy and obviously they two were not mindful of my presence. Staring at them, I felt a sense of indignation and humiliation as if being violated. Had they known that the dusty spider’s web-covered calligraphic board propped against the wall behind them was inscribed by the Emperor Daoguang himself, and had they known the six-foot tall jar for tea-dust buried in sundry items was a relic from the Hall of Diligence and Virtuous Governance at the Old Summer Palace, who knows what kind of plans they would hatch in their surprise. Maybe they would plot some grander money-making schemes? My brother was immersed in his painting inside the room, his pale head contrasting with the bright cherry blossoms and the little wrens. His narrow eyes found the appearance of those three little wrens so captivating. I was envious but also sad for his serene and transcendental state.

Finally, Liying came out of the room in a brown suit with a sparkling gold chain dangling around her neck. She stalked towards Shunquan and let him appraise if her clothes matched. Shunquan looked her over carefully for several minutes and finally said that she was fine. What with his aesthetic taste and keen palette, I couldn’t understand how he didn’t find her preferred get-up garish: those brown clothes and that vulgar chain didn’t complement her dark yellow skin, but only made her look duller and older. Shunquan, who approved of her choices, perhaps had a more profound understanding of life than I did. Even if the two uncles made remarks along the lines of “must sell that big jar”, he would just smile and adopt the attitude of “let it be!” Yes, he had experienced much more than I.

At half past nine, a flock of people rushed out of the door as if heading out to hunt wolves. On seeing the “Imperial Crown” parked at the door, Shunquan refused to get in, saying that he shouldn’t rely on borrowed trappings to enhance his own image. He had planned to go by bus and that accorded with his identity. He gave up on the idea and finally, with persuasion from Qingqing’s uncles, compromised and agreed on a yellow minivan taxi. The cab pulled over and the driver took one look at the group of people, before insisting that there was no room. The elder uncle said there was an “Imperial Crown” parked behind.

Shunquan was taken aback and asked, “Are they all going to the hotel?”

Liying replied that “We are relatives and it is proper that they should all meet. What is more, elder brother seldom comes back.”

Shunquan pointed to Liying’s younger sister-in-law and asked, “What are they going for?”

 “I’m afraid you couldn’t take things into consideration. If brother-in-law doesn’t want us to accompany you, we won’t go. I ... I just won’t go with you.”

But the two uncles stood there with their arms crossed, showing no signs of not wishing to go. I understood my brother’s mind and was becoming increasingly conscious of the complexities of social relations which deepened as times changed. This complexity was not brought about the number of people, but had to do with their psychology, the balance between giving and taking, and the speculative and shameless pursuit of profit. At Shunquan’s insistence, the “retinue” dispersed like birds and beasts, so that in the end only Shunquan, Liying and I arrived at the Palace Hotel.

Shunwu wasn’t waiting for us in the lobby. I rang the room in which he was staying and a woman’s voice informed us coolly that we could come up. I paid special attention to how there was no “please” among her words. This “knock me up and wait to be invited in” attitude felt a bit humiliating. I thought that if the woman was Liu Simi, that was too heartless an exchange, as Shunquan was her “mentor” after all. I didn’t tell Shunquan what I was thinking in the elevator. I didn’t want him to get upset again and what was more, his wife, Liying was present.

A somewhat plump and elegant woman opened the door. I could read from her expressionless face an all too obvious arrogance and imperiousness and guessed that she was incapable of singing the delicate and sentimental strains of Sigh at the Infinite Night. Shunquan had clearly never “leaned on” any “carved railings” with her. She was not Liu Simi. I stared at Shunquan, and Shunquan’s look was even colder and haughtier than hers.

The man I should have called “elder brother” was sitting on the sofa. He rose only slightly. I was unsure if he was unable to or just did not want to stand up unaided. His manners seemed in the tradition of polite quietness. In my mind his behavior was probably not in accordance with the etiquette of the Jin family. Shunquan addressed him as “eldest brother” and I followed suit. Anyone could hear that there was no emotion in our voices, just like hailing a stranger on the street when asking for directions or wanting to know which road one is on. “Eldest brother” was a general term of address. Shunquan introduced Liying and I to Shunwu and he said he didn’t expect there to be a younger sister named Shunming. He asked when I was born and I answered it was in the year of liberation. He asked if that was the liberation in 1945, and I clarified that it was the year when the New China was founded and Chiang Kai-shek fled to Taiwan.

“You Mainlanders call that the ‘year of liberation’?” he wanted to know.

“Yes,” I replied. “That was the liberation.”

“Are you a member of the Communist Party of China?”

“Yes.”

“You Reds share the same temperament.” He had evidently met many CPC comrades and could identify them with a single glance before they had even opened their mouths.

“Of course, you must have had decades of experience at that.”

“Such a stubborn temper. That I admire. No wonder you are a child of the Jin family. Have you heard about our relative Shunyu?”

“Indeed. My Third Sister.”

“Your temperament is very similar to hers’. When you first came in, I almost ....” He went onto say, “She deserved to be known as a forerunner to you communists of today. Her unwavering loyalty was admirable, but it’s also a pity that she didn’t cherish her own life.”

“It’s not that she didn’t cherish her own life. It was because you didn’t give her the chance to live.”

“Although Shunyu passed away with regret, hasn’t she continued to enjoy a good reputation on the Mainland, even having her name inscribed in the Book of Loyalists in Beijing?”

“According to your reasoning, Third Sister’s heroic status was conferred on her by the Kuomintang. It’s actually better to thank you for her and the millions of other innocent victims who died.”

The situation we found ourselves in was not like what the newspapers often report. We are accustomed to reading about relatives from across the Taiwan Strait weeping when they meet again at last. That spectacle in turn moves others to tears.

Our family reunion was more of an awkward spot. Incompatibility rather than indifference rendered us tongue-tied. Shunwu turned around and introduced the woman, his wife, whose name was Lin Xiangyuan. She came from Zhanghua, Taiwan and was also a delegate of the Kuomintang Party and a politician. Much to my relief, this wife of Shunwu’s was not Liu Simi. Shunwu mentioned Shunquan’s friend Pu Xinshe and said that he lived in a humble house in the street of Lintu after arriving in Taipei. It was quite different from the Mansion of Prince Gong where he used to live. In his leisure time, he often missed his old friends in Beijing, including Shunquan and the sweet and sour cabbage he soaked. Shunquan told him that the garden of the Mansion of Prince Gong in Beijing had been repaired and renovated, and his old friend could come back to have a visit if he had the opportunity. Shunwu reported that Pu Xinshe had in fact passed away in 1964, and Shunquan was sad to hear that. Shunquan introduced the stories of the siblings and when he talked about the third, the fourth and the sixth sister who passed away one after another, he paused with a choke. I noticed that when he mentioned my third sister, Shunyu, he just glossed over the matter to avoid causing Shunwu embarrassment once again. His well-intentioned efforts were truly astonishing. His whole life could be summed up with one word, “Confucianism.” To his parents, brothers, lovers, and friends, he was always strict with himself but lenient towards others. He adhered to the Doctrine of the Mean, accepted whatever came to him, and was content with fate. He was indifferent to worldly success and sang Dream Love all his life. And yet today he dared not even mention Liu Simi’s name ... I really thought that my Old Seven was spineless and pathetic to the extreme. To a certain extent, he seemed more cowardly than Shunwu. 

Finally, we raised the topic of the phoebe wood box. Shunwu said that he was not interested in the box or its contents. Whatever was inside, he wouldn’t lay claim to it because from the day he left the Jin family he had severed all economic and emotional ties, which of course included the wooden box sealed in the wall. “Shunquan, you asked me for my opinion and I answered that it was yours to deal with.”

Madame Lin, my sister-in-law brought out an envelope containing $20,000 US and handed it to Shunquan, saying that he had suffered grievously during these years owing to his association with Shunwu.

Shunquan became really angry at this moment. Regardless of what hints Liying was dropping from behind his back, he rose up and flung the envelope down on the table resolutely, saying firmly that “I may not be rich, but my professional skills are sufficient to support my family. The motivations behind this gift should first be spelled out reasonably and clearly, otherwise there is no way I can accept it. If the money is meant as compensation for what was suffered during Cultural Revolution, then eldest brother had better take it back. As for the “Shun” generation in the Jin family, discounting those who passed away prematurely, ten of we fourteen lived into full adulthood. If you are offering this as reparations for the mental and physical suffering of those days, please take it back quickly. There are many things in the world that can be bought and compensated for with money, but there are many things that can’t be bought and can never be compensated. That which cannot be bought is both noble and precious, truly beyond compare. Each of we Jin siblings chose a different road. Despite being separated by mountains and rivers, and divided by life and death, our kinship and blood ties will endure forever. This $20,000 does nothing to affect this. Your behavior confirms that you look down upon our family affection and the feelings of siblings and weigh everything in terms of money. That is too cold and devoid of emotion. It cannot make a difference to what happened decades ago. Is this the conduct expected of an elder brother? How can you expect your younger siblings to respect you?”

Shunwu was astonished and speechless. Suddenly he rose up with a soldierly bearing, his spine erect. A look of irrepressible displeasure was etched on the clear-cut features of his face. If the time could have been rolled back to decades ago, I have no doubt that he would yelled: “Get over here! Take this man out and shoot him.” As he had in fact done this kind of thing before, Shunquan deserved my utmost admiration. These were truly the actions of a Chinese scholar! A great scholar!

Liying came to the rescue and comforted Shunwu, maintaining that he should not let himself get angry. She explained that Shunquan had indeed suffered a lot on account of Shunwu during the time of Cultural Revolution and had endured endless public humiliations, even having his hair forcibly shaved off. He had been nursing grievances for years and hoped that Shunwu could understand. Besides, his niece Qingqing was young and in the future maybe she would need her eldest uncle and aunt’s help and support ... Shunquan ordered Liying to be silent and not to lose face for him any further. After saying these words, Shunquan picked up his cane and turned around to leave. I followed on closely behind. The reunion between long-separated brothers was so simple and brief.

When we had just crossed the threshold, Shunwu called out to Shunquan in a low voice, which was appreciably gentler. Shunquan paused but did not turn around. Shunwu said, “Please, I beg you. Come back. There is one more thing.” Shunquan realized that something was afoot and he turned around to see Shunwu clutching that double-eared red vase. Stunned for seconds, he stumbled toward the relic. Seldom had I seen him so anxious. Retrieving the vase from Shunwu, Shunquan caressed the item with trembling hands and gazed at it with tears streaming down his cold, old cheeks. That was the famous Jun porcelain double-eared vase, which was taken by Liu Simi and today it was being returned to its original owner. And yet, there was no sign whatsoever of Liu Simi, who might have echoed the sentiment of this being “returning a precious pearl with tears in both eyes.” The vase was sealed with beeswax and it was a little heavy to lift.

“Simi entrusted me to bring this vase and herself back to you. She yearned day and night to come to the desk in the flower hall and to watch you paint, to listen to you playing the flute. Now her wish has been fulfilled.”

When Shunquan learned that the vase contained the ashes of Liu Simi, who had passed away from homesickness, he embraced it so tightly against his chest and called out her name, bursting into tears. The sorrows and yearning that had been suppressed for decades finally erupted like raging torrents at the moment of her return. I was moved by the old love story from my family and I sung from my heart for them:

Left alone with our slender shadows, the moonlight reflected off the coral-colored trees, while the desolate canopy was choired with plaintive fall cicadas, and the crisp sound of dropping leaves echoed mournfully. We gazed at each other with tear-beaded eyes, persevering in our sorrow.

Shortly after I returned to the Northwest, I received a letter from Qingqing, which reported that the wooden box had been opened by her uncles. There was nothing precious inside and no last will and testament, but thirteen oiled paper wrappers each encasing a handful of hair, labeled separately “Shunjin,” “Shunwu,” “Shunbo,” “Shunmei,” “Shunquan” et al. These were thin postnatal hairs, each bound into bundles with a red silk thread. As she correctly deduced, my fetal hair was not in that box, because I had not been born at that time.

Her uncles didn’t understand about the baby hair in the box, and complained that the members of this family must have been afflicted with mental disorders for generations. Qingqing said that her father’s health was not as hale as before. He played the flute or painted every day. Owing to his shortness of breath, he could barely blow a complete melody on the flute, though he did insist on trying. His eyesight was so poor that on most occasions his paintings were nothing more than scribbles. Nevertheless, he persisted and turned a deaf ear to voices which tried to dissuade him.

The urban construction department had called several times, urging the family to relocate. An apartment replete with four bedrooms and two living rooms was awaiting the old man in the resettled residential area outside of Chaoyang Gate. Still, he refused to move, saying that he would only leave this small courtyard feet first. In light of their relationship with Uncle Shunwu, the government departments were unwilling to stoop to taking rash measures and just let the affair drag on. Qingqing wrote that according to her uncles’ predictions, her father might not see next spring ...

A wave of sadness and melancholy surged through my heart as I stood on the balcony, gazing for a long time in the direction of my home city. What must end will eventually end, but when it finally fades away, it is inevitable that we will feel a pang in our hearts and a lingering attachment that is hard to relinquish ... After all, it is difficult to abandon our old home, and the bond between siblings runs deep.

I am grateful that my hair was not enclosed in that magnificent phoebe wood box. That way I have been spared so much entanglement and calamity.