A Map of Betrayal (19 page)

Gary chuckled softly. Her story reminded him of Nellie, who never complained about the food he liked. For that he was grateful. Then Suzie sighed and said, “No matter where I go, I always feel I’m Chinese.”

For some reason her words moved him, though he pressed on, “But you’re a U.S. citizen, are you not?”

“I am. I don’t mean I can’t be a citizen of another country. I mean something inside me cannot be changed, was already shaped and fixed in China. In that sense I’m damned.”

“To be honest, I feel the same,” Gary said. “If you had come to the States before your teens, you might have been more adaptable.”

“Probably.”

They slept together a few weeks later on a late fall evening, in her apartment on Duke Street. After an early dinner she had
invited him to tea at her place. Her apartment had one bedroom and a living room, a tidy cozy nest decked with flowered sofa covers and sage-colored window curtains that had big rings at the tops. They didn’t drink tea but shared a jar of rice wine instead, which a friend of Suzie’s had brought back from Taipei. Then one thing led to another. The sex that followed was bone-shaking and tempestuous. Her pillows dropped on the hardwood floor, next to their clothes crumpled in a pile. They panted out coarse words that neither of them had ever heard spoken here. “Ah!” she gasped, her mouth open like that of a fish just out of water. Holding her nipple in his mouth, he kept plunging, his back arched. They’d been raising a tremendous din, unafraid of being heard by others, assuming nobody in the building could understand their love cries. Engulfed in the whirlwind of desire, they’d lost the sense of shame and shed the armor of self-respect. The vulgar expressions gushed out of them with force, as though the words were forgotten incantations, coming back with a vengeance to drive them to copulate for the sake of self-preservation. They fucked like animals.

Suzie was in tears after she came for the second time. Her hair was mussed, but her flushed cheeks gave her a youthful glow. For a moment even her neck was ruddy. She confessed, “You made me feel like a woman again. Guess I won’t be able to sleep well for a couple of days. I will miss you.”

Her words unsettled Gary, and he checked his impulse to ask in jest what part of him she would miss. Then it struck him that she too was a lonely soul, homesick and restless in spite of her composed façade. What amazed both of them was that, lying shoulder to shoulder in bed, they became chatterboxes, as if there were endless things they could talk about—from their childhoods in the provinces to their college years in Beijing, from the local foods they missed to the mountains and beach resorts they had both been to, from the family members persecuted in the Land Reform Movement to the class statuses in China’s countryside now, from the differences in the sense of beauty between Asians and Westerners to
some plain-featured Chinese women married by handsome foreign men. They talked and talked until around one a.m., when he had to climb out of bed and go home.

It felt chilly outside. Gary fastened the middle button on his light duffle coat. A thin blaze of moon was high in the sky, which was thick with stars, a few twinkling through the spiky branches. An oak tree dropped an acorn on a nearby roof, the nut thrumming down the shingles until it hit the ground with a tiny thud. Walking in the limpid moonlight to his car parked behind Suzie’s building, for some reason Gary remembered the English expression “talk a blue streak.” And he envisioned the two of them caged like a pair of birds that could chirp and warble only to each other.

IN THE PRACTICE OF ESPIONAGE
, gathering intelligence is just the first step. After that, there is the task of analyzing the information, and then comes the challenge of how to make the best use of it. So much intelligence had gone through Gary’s hands these last few months that he couldn’t possibly photograph all the valuable pages, so he had adopted the role of analyst as well. He chose what he believed were important passages, and compiled and synthesized them to make a coherent report. In his analyses he highlighted the U.S. awareness of the catastrophic situation in China. He meant to convey to the Chinese leaders that if they didn’t get out of their mess soon, China might open itself to attacks from other countries. Unlike the United States, with oceans on the east and west and no powerful country to the south or north, a weak China, surrounded by hostile neighbors, many of which had territorial disputes with it, would be like an exhausted body floating in shark-infested water. He knew his analyses might sound a little far-fetched at times, but he couldn’t help himself and even mentally cursed the stupid Chinese leaders.

He went to Taipei in late December 1961 and from there made a short trip to Hong Kong. He told Nellie that his cousin’s mother-in-law
had just died, so he felt obligated to pay a visit, but his cousin was living with his in-laws in Taiwan now. Bingwen was in Hong Kong to meet him again. The man looked sickly and emaciated, which further convinced Gary of the severity of the famine. But his friend shook his bushy head and said, “I just had hernia surgery and haven’t fully recuperated yet. Everything’s swell back home.”

That couldn’t have been true and must have been what Bingwen had been instructed to tell Gary. Plainly the man had a famished look, and when they dined in restaurants, Bingwen would order a tableful of food for just the two of them and would wolf down whatever he could. He informed Gary of a big promotion—now his rank was the sixteenth, which was equal to a major’s in the army. Gary was pleased, and together they downed three shot cups of Maotai in a row. Bingwen assured him that Yufeng and the twins were well but that his parents had passed away the previous winter—his father died first, then his mother, three months later. Both of them had been slowed by rheumatism in recent years and coughed some during the winter, but other than that, they’d had no major health problems. Bingwen assured Gary that their deaths were due not to hunger but to old age. They’d been in their sixties, so Gary believed they’d met their natural ends, even though his mother’s was caused by a bout of fever. Bingwen told him that he’d gone to the countryside personally to see to their funerals, whose expenses the local government had paid. Gary’s parents were interred in the Shang clan’s burial ground, both clad in new clothes, and a dozen or so wreaths were presented to them. Everything was handled in a proper manner.

Before the trip, Gary had thought about writing to his family and asking Bingwen to mail his letter in China, but now he quashed the notion, certain that such a letter would never be delivered. He was not allowed to communicate directly with his family back home. In addition, he’d feel uncomfortable letting others read
what he wrote to his wife. Since his salary went to Yufeng every month, she and their children should be able to live decently.

He hadn’t shown much emotion when Bingwen told him about his parents’ deaths, but once back in the hotel room alone, Gary felt the waves of grief surging in him, paralyzing his will to do anything. He lay on the bed and wept from time to time, immersed in the memories of his parents. As a teenager, his father had gone to Siberia with a gang of villagers to seek his fortune. They’d ended up in Vladivostok, where by luck he was hired by an old Chinese couple who owned a small emporium. Literate and quick, he soon could manage the business on his own, and the childless couple loved him so much that they adopted him as a son. Three years later they both caught typhoid and died after bequeathing to him everything they owned. He sold the shop, returned to his home village, and bought four acres of good cropland. The next year he built his house of five rooms, which boasted a ceramic-tiled roof, and he married a girl from a well-to-do family. The bride wasn’t pretty but had finished elementary school, which was rare among girls at the time. The young couple planned to raise a big family, but somehow they could have only one child.

Gary would say that his parents had lived a decent life, though the old man had always toiled in the fields alongside his hired hands. His father and mother were so overjoyed when he had passed the entrance exams and enrolled at a top university in Beijing that they went to a lakeside temple to burn incense and donate twenty silver dollars to the local god, who had once been a chieftain of bandits but always protected the common people. It was in Gary’s junior year at Tsinghua University that his parents chose Yufeng for him. They believed that the girl, amiable and healthy, could bring good fortune to the household. Out of filial duty Gary went back to see his bride-to-be, who, to his delight, was lovely and well mannered, so he agreed to the engagement. Now, lying in the hotel bed and breathing the moldy air, he was tormented by grief and anger,
seething at his superiors, who had kept him from his family. He was sure that his wife had been a conscientious daughter-in-law to his parents. If only he could have seen his mom and dad before they died. The sorrow yanked at his heart again and again, and for two days he didn’t step out of the hotel.

Summer vacation at the teachers college would not begin until early July, but because my classes were over, the final exam and papers all graded, I could head home in mid-June. Knowing that my nephew, Benning, was in the States, I was eager to go back and see him. I also missed home and my husband.

I found that Henry, though sixty-one, appeared younger than when I’d left half a year ago. I joked that he might live to be a hundred if I stayed away from him. He said, “That I don’t know, but for sure you’ll outlive me.” His was a family of longevity. His father had died at ninety-four, and two months prior to his death, the old man had still taken evening walks in the state forest south of his house. His mother, eighty-nine now, refused to go to a senior home and was able to care for herself. Most of their relatives, the Cohens, were in Europe, and some had migrated to Israel. Henry often said I sucked his energy, probably because he felt tired easily when I was around. In contrast, living with him, sharing the bed and the dining table, I always got refreshed. This may be a matter of chemistry. In my early thirties I’d had a brief but intense affair with a Chinese man, who I felt drained my energy whenever I spent time with him. He was a decent fellow and might have loved me. But because of the insurmountable obstacles—he’d have had to give up his career, his Party membership, his wife and son to marry me—we parted ways. I won’t say I loved him, but the affair left a deep wound in me. Yet bit by bit I managed to push him out of my mind, and I was healed. Even when I was last in Beijing, I hadn’t looked him up, but every once in a while my memory of him still crinkled the placid surface of my contentment.

Henry was delighted to see me back, following me from room to room so we could talk without letup. Though half Jewish, he
looked a bit Mongolian, with heavy eyelids on his oval face, and wore his hair in a mullet. He had on a T-shirt and jeans, which set off his long limbs and little paunch. He had attended Northwestern Law School but had quit after a year because by then he no longer wanted to be a lawyer. Unlike his two siblings, a financial planner and an editor at
The Wall Street Journal
, he enjoyed working with his hands and was good at fixing things. We rarely hired others for the landscaping and maintenance of the building. He was as capable as any professional. Moreover, maintaining the property helped keep him in shape. We were a good team for the work—I handled the bills and kept the books.

We went to Seven Seas for dim sum the day after my return. Ironically, those Cantonese appetizers were what I had missed most in China, where food was more diverse and often better prepared, but ever since my student Minmin told me about the antibiotics and pesticides overused in food production there, I had grown more apprehensive and avoided dining out as much as possible. Whenever I saw giant pears for sale, each weighing over a pound, I’d feel uneasy. Later I discovered that many powerful and wealthy Chinese had their own food supplies that came direct from restricted gardens and farms. Some officials even had hills sealed off so that they could grow tea unaffected by insecticides and have it harvested manually. There were also organic grocery stores throughout the country serving only senior officers and officials. Henry and I sat in a booth, enjoying the meal at leisure. When I mentioned I had a nephew in Massachusetts, his eyes brightened.

“Take it easy,” I told Henry. “Benning is not a kid, he’s twenty-six.”

“That’s a kid to me. Why didn’t you tell me he’s in the States?”

“He just told me, and I haven’t figured him out yet. Let’s try to get to know him step by step, okay?”

“Sure, no need to rush.”

“It’s so good to be back and make a pig of myself again.”

Despite saying that, I hardly ever overate. In my childhood my
mother would weigh me every week, saying that if a girl’s figure was gone, she’d lose her prospects. She allowed me to eat ice cream once a week, but I could have cookies more often, perhaps because she got them at a discount. I don’t know why she thought weight might be a problem for me; neither she nor my father was on the heavy side. At present I was five foot eight and 132 pounds. Of course, after a hearty meal of dim sum, that would be a different story—I’d be pushing 135.