The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

“
She will do it regardless
,” said the old woman, “
Your son and your daughter form a union, but you must foster their unity to help balance the energy.  It will make their union stronger.  You won’t be around; they will only have each other
.”

“
How do I foster their unity
?” asked Qiu.

“
With a name
,” said the old woman.

“
What name
?” asked Qiu.

“
A name to let this world know they are both your children
,” said the old woman, “
So the world will know trying to harm one will trigger the retaliation of the other.  What is your daughter’s name
?”

“
Li Xiaofeng
,” said Qiu.

“
She has your family name
,” said the old woman.

“
No reason why she should have the name of a man she doesn’t know, who doesn’t know her
,” said Qiu.

“
Good
,” said the old woman, “
Your son will also have your family name
.”

“
To foster their unity
?” asked Qiu.

“
Yes, but also balance
,” said the old woman, “
Your daughter’s name Xiaofeng—Young Wind—marks her as your child.  You are autumn.  Wind is a product of autumn.  So your son’s name should match your daughter’s to balance
.”

Qiu leaned back in her chair and tilted her head up.  She stared at the ceiling before looking down at her belly.  She put her hand on her belly and felt it at different places.  The old woman was accurate.  She could feel his strength already. 

“
I’m your mother
,” said Qiu, “
Remember me if you can, if you can, Xiaoyu
.”  The old woman glared intensely at Qiu.

“
Li Xiaoyu
,” said the old woman.  Qiu looked up at the old woman, her eyes big and serious.

“
It matches
,” said the old woman.

Qiu looked away and stared at the wall.  She ran the name over and over in her mind.  She didn’t focus on a match or a balance of forces.  She liked the name, Xiaoyu—
Young Rain
.

The engine coughed, choking on small amounts of phlegm.  The road was paved which made the ride smoother, but not smooth.  The bus was old and had seen many years of service—its age showed.  The seats had new covers added but not new pads, which made the ride uncomfortable, especially for someone seated in the back.  A thin well-dressed man was seated in the back.  The lack of padding on the seat and his body made the over-seven-hour journey miserable.  The engine was at the front of the bus, adding weight, leaving the bumps on the road to take the hindmost.  And there were several bumps on the road, from Shenyang to Kuandian.  His trip had not only included bumps, but crowds, waits, lines and stops.  His journey was over 2,600 km.  It started with a flight from Hong Kong to Shenyang, then he travelled by bus to Kuandian.  He spent the night in Shenyang before catching the morning bus to Kuandian.  It was a long and frustrated journey to get to a small place like Kuandian, but it was the road home as best he knew it. 

He stepped off the steel carriage with a shoulder bag and genuine leather duffel.  He was noticeably better dressed than the rest of the passengers.  They would have admitted an interest in his occupation. Whatever he did, he had to keep up appearances.  He wore navy linen slacks that fit so well, they had to be custom-made.  His shirt was dark gray silk and he wore sunglasses, the expensive kind—not for travelers.  Gentle whiskers grew above his top lip, worn dark from cigarette smoke.  There were slight hints of white hairs toward the back of his head. Otherwise his hair was straight and black.  He had cropped it short at the back and along the sides and parted the top.  He reached in his pocket for a comb and combed backwards through his smooth black hair.  His skin was bronzed by the sun.  If not for his clothes, he would have been mistaken for a farmer.  He turned his gold wrist watch face up; it was 3:48pm.  He was early and his father was late.  He would have to wait.  He had thought about asking his niece to come get him, but a man moving in his circles was not to be driven by a woman—not even in Kuandian.

A white
Lada Samara
pulled up to the Kuandian Railway Station, at 4:22pm.  The
Samara
parked authoritatively in the middle of the street, as if the driver was the authority.  The driver leaned over the passenger seat to roll down the window.  The well-dressed man ignored him before he called.

“
Li Xing
,” said the man in the car, loud enough for the well-dressed man to hear him. But the well-dressed man made the driver repeat himself, to defeat his purpose.  After hearing his name a third time, the well-dressed man stepped in the direction of the white car.  The well-dressed man opened the passenger door and threw his duffel behind the passenger seat.  He kept the shoulder bag in the front seat, first on his lap then on the floor, touching his feet. 

“
Hey Baba
,” said the well-dressed man, “
You look good
.”

“
I’m old and married
,” said Baba, “
My looks don’t matter, obviously yours do because you’re neither old nor married
.”

“
Waiting till I’m old to get married
,” said the well-dressed man, “
Then my options will be less and it’ll be easier to decide
.”

“
No, you’re waiting to be old enough to decide
,” said Baba, “
You don’t feel like you’re a man yet
.”

“
I’m 34
,” said the well-dressed man.

“
Age doesn’t make you a man
,” said Baba.

“
Then what
?” asked the well-dressed man.

“
Your worth
,” said Baba, “
It either increases or decreases. It doesn’t sit still for long.
”

“
Then age would matter
,” said the well-dressed man.

“
It’s not definitive, I know plenty who got older but not better
,” said Baba.

“
And who are they I wonder
,” said the well-dressed man.

“
Oh that’s not hard
,” said Baba, “
You can spot them before they get old
.”

“
How’s that
?” asked the well-dressed man.

“
By what they’re worth, like I said
,” said Baba.

“
And how do you figure that out
?” asked the well-dressed man.

“
Look at what they give and what they take
,” said Baba, “
If they take what’s not theirs, they’re a thief and they’re worthless.  If they take more than they give, they’re still a thief and still worthless
.”

Baba had the habit of using his hands to make gestures when he spoke.  It made him awkward to drive with.  He alternated hands on the steering wheel and used his free hand as a crutch that his speech relied on.  He slapped the well-dressed man in the arm multiple times to get his attention—he already had.  He seemed more interested in being heard than understood.  The well-dressed man sat quiet hoping his father would take the hint—he didn’t want to talk anymore.

“
Like your nephew
,” Baba continued, “
He’s the most worthless thing.  Look at what he’s taken and what he’s given.  He took your sister.  He took all opportunities from Xiaofeng and in exchange he gives his devil-presence, his trouble, his shame on our family.  Such a thing should not exist, just worthless.  That one should never have been born
.”

“
I’ve had a long trip Baba
,” said the well-dressed man, “
You can continue talking, but don’t blame me if I don’t hear everything.
”

“
I’ve said everything I need to say
,” said Baba, “
Besides it’s been a good two years since I’ve seen my son, I’m not gonna waste time talking about that little black devil
.”  The well-dressed man smiled to himself.

“
But if something happened to me, he’d be the last male heir in the family.  Perhaps you never thought about that
,” said the well-dressed man, “
Or perhaps you have, which is why you first mentioned me getting married
.”

The well-dressed man turned his head and stared at his father, through sunglasses.  The sunglasses hid his insecurity.  He could talk tough through sunglasses.  And he wore sunglasses often; he did a lot of tough-talking.  The well-dressed man noticed a change in his father.  He started to focus more seriously on driving, from all appearances.  The well-dressed man had silenced his father but thickened the mood.  The atmosphere in the car grew cold and dense.  The well-dressed man was used to such weather but wanted to warm the air.

“
How’s mama
?” asked the well-dressed man.

“
You can ask her yourself in five minutes
,” said Baba.  The conversation was no longer between father and son, but two adult men who disagreed on all but family name.

The white
Samara
pulled up to a subtle green iron gate, joining a wall of tensely stacked red brick.  Baba stopped the
Samara
in front of the gate and got out of the car leaving the engine running.  He used a brass key to unlock the gate’s internal mechanism, swinging open one gate door and unbolting the other one.  He pushed the second gate door and let it float backwards on its hinge.  The iron joints winced in pain as the gate door came to a slow stop.  Baba had created enough space for the
Samara
to fit through.  Personal vehicles were a sign of high occupation, making it a priority for Baba to park behind the recent redbrick house.  The well-dressed man tried to look calm as he saw his mother come out the front door.  Baba ferried the well-dressed man around back of the redbrick house.  Baba parked the car parallel to a wire clothesline.  The woman who came out the front door was thin.  Wearing a gray turtleneck sweater and thin grey plaid pants, she walked steadily with her arms folded across her chest.  A kittenish wind caught the tail-end of her short hair.  Her face was flat and round, but womanly, welcoming and familiar.  She stepped curiously around the back corner of the redbrick house to see her husband and only remaining child. 

Her husband walked toward her, but left space for his son.  The well-dressed man insisted on carrying his own bags, but put them down on the dirt floor and used both arms to hug his mother.  He could feel her bony frame through her clothes, soaking with the smell of kitchen. 

“
Li Xing
,” said the woman using her right hand to pat his right cheek.

“
Hello, Mama
,” said the well-dressed man.

“
Are you hungry
?” asked Mama.

“
If you’re cooking I am
,” said Li Xing.

Li Xing picked up his duffle and his shoulder bag and followed his mother inside.  Baba took a half glance back at his white
Lada Samara
.  It was rare to have a personal vehicle in this place at this time; it made him standout.  He saw it as an achievement, one that stuck.  He had to accept so much destruction of his own creations.  He had seen a daughter without a responsible man.  Then she told him a story about why she was having a second child—that broke him down.  By the time he found out, it was irreversible.  Qiu had moved back to Mainland China during the seventh month of her pregnancy, making it too late to terminate.  On the day at the hospital, there were complications—the painful kind.  Baba was one room away but could hear his daughter screaming.  By the time she stopped, he wasn’t allowed in to see her, at her request.  She had asked that only her daughter be allowed in and in those moments he had no idea what was said.  His granddaughter had never told him.  She only relayed the baby’s name.  Her mother’s wish was for her brother to be called Xiaoyu.  Several nurses had exited the delivery room before the doctor.  The doctor came out holding a life in his arms; the only life that was left.  Baba had gone into the delivery room to see his daughter, who had held so much promise, asleep.  Her body was pale and her body weight no longer belonged to her.  It belonged to gravity instead.  Half her left arm drooped over the side of the bed but didn’t move.  He told himself she was asleep, which was true.  But it wasn’t a peaceful sleep, it was a parting sleep.

His granddaughter had gone and sat by herself.  She had sat for a while before faint noises became audible, then she cried.  Anyone expecting an extraordinary display of emotion would have been disappointed; she wasn’t the type.  Her mother had passed away.  It was her duty to cry.  But her tears seemed to give way to a superseding duty.  She had walked hastily over to the doctor holding the newborn and said,
give my brother to me
.  That was all she said and exactly what the doctor had done.  Baba remembered thinking there had been something noticeably different about his granddaughter.  She had been thirteen years-old at the time, too young to care for a newborn child.  But her demeanor had betrayed convention.  It seemed to him that at that moment, baby in arms, she would have killed for the child or died for it.  He had told himself he would never ask his granddaughter what her mother said to her in those moments before her death.  It would be his way of honoring his daughter, if she had wanted him to hear her last words she would have requested his presence—she hadn’t.  What she had to say was meant for her daughter alone.

Baba squinted as he looked at the
Samara
, at least he had something he could be proud of.  He had guessed what his daughter had said to his granddaughter in those moments, years before.  He had guessed because of the way his granddaughter had acted.  He had guessed because he knew his own daughter.  There was only one thing she could have told Xiaofeng and he had not been invited because it was one thing Qiu knew he couldn’t do—take care of Xiaoyu.

Baba walked in the house a minute behind his son and wife.  The main room of the house was empty.  Li Xing made his way to a familiar room, at the back of the house.  Mama was in the kitchen doing what was left.  Baba opened a glass cabinet stocked with white porcelain.  He grabbed enough plates and tea cups for five people.  He set the porcelain on top of the cabinet and closed it.  He went into the kitchen and grabbed a foldable table, bringing it into the main room.  Standing the table on its legs, he took the porcelain from the top of the cabinet and set the table.  Li Xing stood in the main room wearing a white cotton tank top and light-colored shorts.  Mama came into the main room with a hot pot and ladle.  Li Xing grabbed the pot from his mother and told her to have a seat.

“
I’ll get the rest Mama
,” he said.

“
The rice is in the big white dish on the counter
,” said Mama.

“
I know which one
,” said Li Xing moving toward the kitchen.

“
First time off my feet today
,” said Mama, mostly to herself.