Dreams of the Red Phoenix (6 page)

He pulled on his trousers over his pajama bottoms, yanked
on his golfing cap, and retrieved his pocketknife from under
the bed. He went in search of his mother. She wasn't in her
bedroom or in the sewing room, so he started downstairs but
stopped short on the landing beside the moon window. The
view over the back wall had not changed. On the horizon, the
low mountain range shimmered in the morning haze, its blue
skirts flowing onto the rosy desert floor. All seemed peaceful in
that greater distance, and Charles wondered why the Japanese
Imperial Army, or the Chinese military, for that matter, chose
to attack one area but not another. It all seemed arbitrary and
mysterious.

Into the front hall, swarms of Chinese people poured. Fam
ilies with small children, older men in coolie hats, a pregnant
woman who looked ready to burst, grandfathers hobbling over
their canes, and clusters of young men all pressed into their home.
Charles's mother stood at the center, an electric look in her eyes,
and Lian's shouts rose above it all. She sent some strangers into
the dining room, others into the parlor. The handsome French
doors had been flung back, glass panes reflecting the many who
shuffled in and milled about on the blue carpet with the cher
ry-blossom design. Charles noticed that the Chinese didn't set
down their bags or take a seat on the formal furniture. They hov
ered about, clearly at a loss for what to do next.

Charles noticed a young man leaning on a friend, with
several others surrounding him. He had been shot in the leg
and had a tourniquet cinched around his thigh. Down his torn
pants, the caked blood had hardened. A frayed rope held his
oversized jacket in place, and his cloth shoes were ripped, the
sole of the left one flopping loose. Could this kid, who wasn't
much older than he, be an actual soldier, even though he wore
no uniform? Charles had overheard the servants saying that
the Nationalist Army troops had been fighting the Japanese
off and on for months in North China and were badly un
dersupplied and underfed. The injured boy swayed where he
balanced between his friends, the perfectly good wicker sofa
empty before them.

Charles ran down the stairs and stopped beside his mother.
She was leaning over an elderly man crumpled in the middle of
the mayhem. With his chin tucked to his chest, the grandfather
refused to respond to her entreaties that he move so he wouldn't
be trampled by the incoming horde. When she straightened and
called for Lian's help, his mother finally noticed Charles and
threw her arms around his neck. Then she pushed him away and
held him at arm's length. She looked him up and down, search
ing nonsensically for injuries, then offered a grim and apologetic
shake of her head.

“I'm so sorry, my boy. This is an awful mess. Are you all
right?”

“I'm fine, Mother.” He knew she meant well by her concern,
as if it was her duty to make everything right in a world that
wasn't one bit right. It made her look tired, Charles thought, her
face lined with worry. He shifted away from her now and ges
tured toward the parlor. “Should I tell them to sit down?”

“What?” she shouted back.

Charles noticed an elderly woman being carried in by two
strong grandsons, her bound feet dangling uselessly. A toddler
cried, and another child not much older scolded him but then
reached down and took his hand. Charles raised his voice, too.
“Shall I help them to feel at home?”

“Yes, excellent idea. Thank you, Charles.” Her eyes were
shining, and she seemed ready to cry. “I'm so proud of you.”

“Please don't make a fuss,” he said and stepped away, his fists
balled at his sides.

In the parlor, he wove past several families and climbed onto
his father's leather chair. For balance, he placed one foot on the
desk beside the banker's lamp with the green shade. He tried not
to notice the abacus that his father had always allowed him to
play with, or the letters and ministerial notes covered in his fine,
spidery scrawl. Charles reached down and pocketed his father's
chop, a two-inch-long piece of marble with a phoenix carved on
one end and Chinese characters on the other. The bright-red ink
his father had used to stamp his signature smudged on Charles's
palm, but he held on to it tightly anyway.

Charles swallowed and then shouted in the local dialect, “Sit!”
He gestured to the available chairs. “Make yourselves at home!”

The Chinese stared up at him, and Charles saw only distress
and confusion on their faces. Where had they come from, he
wondered, and from what were they running? He realized that
standing so high above them wasn't helping to put them at ease.
He stepped down and began to yank the rocker and other chairs
away from the center of the room. He lined them up against the
walls, and the Chinese began to drift toward them. “That's right,”
he tried more patiently. “Put down your things and take a seat.”

From his visits to Han's father's quarters at the back of the
compound, Charles knew that the Chinese kept their formal fur
niture around the outside of a room and used it only on special
occasions or when an important visitor came. This parlor's usual
arrangement of seats clustered before the fireplace and in front
of the bay window would seem odd to them, so Charles tried to
create his own version of a Chinese setting. As he moved the fur
niture, Dao-Ming appeared without a sound and began to help
him. When they finished, Charles patted her on the head, and
she smiled. She always stood a little too close, literally underfoot,
but Charles didn't mind having her around. She did whatever he
asked, and although Charles tried not to take advantage of her too
often, every once in a while he'd say something like “Dao-Ming,
sneak me a malt candy stick from the cookie jar where Lian hides
them, will you?” And she always would, no questions asked. She
had never once betrayed him to his parents or his amah.

He spoke again to the crowded room, bowing first. “My fami
ly and I would be most honored if you would permit us the priv
ilege of your taking a seat.” He bowed a second time to the most
elderly of the gentleman.

The Chinese finally settled in. They sat on the chairs and
set blankets on the hearth. More made themselves comfortable
along the window seats. But still no one sat on the sofa, which
remained in its usual spot on the fine rug. Charles went to the
injured young man and gestured for him to lie down on the silk
cushions. The injured fellow looked at his friends, then down at
his feet. None of them moved. Charles left the room briefly and
wove through the crowd. He returned a few moments later and
spread one of Lian's rags over the silk pillows on the couch and
gestured again. Finally the young man stumbled toward it on his
good leg and eased himself down, grimacing apologetically.

The older of his two friends had hollow cheeks and was miss
ing several teeth, but his eyes seemed kind as he adjusted the pil
low under the injured boy's leg and crouched down beside him.
His other friend had a barrel chest, stocky legs, and forearms as
thick around as baseball bats. He swayed side to side and kept a
restless, eager watch over his injured friend.

Charles stepped closer to the three men and asked, “So, what
happened out there this morning?”

They looked to one another again, and the older man finally
nodded. The restless fellow could hardly contain himself as he
answered, “Communist guerrillas destroyed a section of the rail
road the Japs have been trying to build through the mountains. I
heard it was a direct hit!”

“That's a good thing, isn't it?” Charles asked.

“Yes, but they attacked us out on the plains in retaliation!
They must have thought we were responsible.”

“We don't know if that is the reason,” the older man said.
“There could be action elsewhere. Or it could still be in response
to the Marco Polo Bridge incident in Peking. We must be patient.
Word will come.”

“But you were attacked near here?” Charles asked. “Where?”

The older man looked at him but didn't answer.

The restless one paced behind the sofa. “If only we had proper
weapons and better aircraft, we would stand a chance. Our of
ficers parade around, and the young warlord issues commands
from afar.” He waved his hand in disgust. “I could run this army
better myself.”

“Settle down,” the older one growled. “And don't forget we
did well in the North.”

“There's been fighting north of here?” Charles asked.

“They want the coal of this region,” the robust fellow said,
“and to use the roads through the mountains to get supplies. So
far we have not let them. We have been very brave!”

“Control of the mountains is crucial,” the older one said, shak
ing his head.

The injured boy, who had lain quietly until now with his eyes
shut, opened them and pushed himself up onto one elbow. “The
Reds know the mountains better than anyone. When my leg is
healed, I'm joining them.”

The robust one patted him on the shoulder. “Do not desert us,
my friend, like our traitorous commanders.”

The older one muttered a curse.

“What do you mean?” Charles asked. “Your commanders ac
tually left you?”

“They are puppets, nothing more!” the restless one said. Then
he leaned closer to the older man and whispered, “I say, let the
Imperial Army execute them! I will do the job myself if the Japs
don't.”

As the injured boy flopped back onto the sofa he said, “There
is no such thing as traitors in the Eighth Route Army. No one is
conscripted, so there is no reason for desertion.”

“You shouldn't believe everything you hear, kid,” the restless
one said. “Stick with us.”

The injured boy let out a soft moan and shut his eyes again.
Charles crouched before him and carefully lifted the torn materi
al to see the wound. The other soldiers leaned in closer, too, and
seemed unimpressed.

“You will run again in no time,” the restless friend said.

The bullet appeared to have only grazed the thigh, but the
skin was nonetheless badly torn, and Charles thought he saw
bone beneath. If this was considered a slight wound, he hated
to think what these men might consider a real injury. He quick
ly covered the leg again, breathed through his open mouth, and
held on to the sofa arm. He tried to focus on the task at hand. He
would need to find something to clean the wound, also towels
and bandages. But first his head must stop spinning.

“American boy all right?” the older man asked.

“He is afraid of blood,” the robust one said and swatted
Charles's arm. “You would never make it in my army!”

Charles tried to smile. “I'll get supplies for you,” he said to the
injured boy.

Light-headed, he gazed around the parlor. Several elders and
the pregnant woman sat on the chairs, their families and pos
sessions clustered at their feet. Others crouched on the rug or
pushed aside the curtains to look out at the crowded porch and
courtyard. What these people hoped for, or what they wanted to
see happen next, remained unclear to Charles. What had taken
place outside the compound remained equally confusing, despite
the explanations from the soldiers.

Charles looked toward the chaotic scene in the front hall
way. Each of the Chinese appeared caught in his or her own
turmoil, with his mother at the center, trying to make sense of
it all. Charles couldn't help laughing a little under his breath.
She looked so alive and engaged, her hands gesticulating as she
spoke, her head held high, then dipping low to hear the words of
a bent elder or small child. With renewed vigor, she appeared to
be doing her darnedest to help each and every one of them.