Falling Leaves: The True Story of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter (23 page)

We now had zo,ooo dollars in our joint account. For the first time I had more money than I knew what to do with. One August afternoon after giving seven anaesthetics, I drove to a car dealer and bought a brand-new white Mercedes, registering the vehicle in both our names.

Returning home I placed the registration papers on Byron’s bed for his signature. He signed without comment but from then on no longer contributed any part of his salary towards our household expenses.

At the end of 1969, he suddenly departed for a position in Hong Kong, leaving a farewell note on my pillow, telling me that he would return within the year. I read his message with relief, content that I could now channel all my energy into my son and my career.

While in Hong Kong, Byron went with his father to pay a social call on my parents on Chinese New Year, traditionally a time for family reunion. Their visit was not a success. They brought a large basket of fruit and arrived fifteen minutes early. Niang complained that ’being early was as impolite as being late. In both cases the guests were inconveniencing the hosts.’ Niang insisted on speaking English and later cornmented on their ’poor grasp of the language and atrocious accents’. When my parents unwrapped the colourful cellophane paper enveloping the fruit basket, they found that many of the fruits were rotten, from which Niang assumed that the basket was well past its sell-by date and had been purchased cheaply.

Byron returned from Hong Kong after an absence of seven

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months. He took up his job at Douglas Aircraft again and we resumed our separate lives under the same roof.

In October of that year, 1970, Father and Niang were on a world trip and decided to pay us a visit. Throughout the last six years, I had hidden from them the truth about my dismal marriage. My letters were limited to milestones, achievements and glowing reports of the Californian weather. On their arrival, Byron and I took Roger to meet them at the airport. Niang insisted on staying in Universal City, fifty miles from our home, at a hotel owned by their rich American friends, the Jules Steins. Between them they had brought six suitcases. During the long drive from the airport to their hotel, I was desperately keeping an awkward conversation going. Niang was wearing her usual perfume, familiar to me since childhood. I knew that Byron was unacquainted with the complicated maze of freeways in that area. While trying to decipher the road map in the dim car light, I was terrified of giving the wrong directions and causing Byron to throw a temper tantrum. When we finally arrived, I rushed to the bathroom and vomited.

Two days later, I took time off from work to drive them home for a weekend visit. In the lobby of their hotel, Father and Niang had an argument. Father had directed the concierge to pack their clothes and place their baggage in storage during their absence. Apparently he had not previously consulted Niang.

She countermanded his orders. ’There’s no need for that. Our clothes should hang in a wardrobe, not wrinkled up in a suitcase. Leave them where they are! We’ll pay for the room while away.’

Father said nothing. There was no doubt as to who was in charge. During the silent fifty-mile drive home, Father fell asleep, looking crestfallen and browbeaten. I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. His sloping shoulders, drooping head and folded hands were reminiscent of another time, another

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place. Suddenly I remembered. Yes! Father had begun to resemble Ye Ye in his last years.

I took them to the hospital where I worked, introduced them to my colleagues and visited an apartment complex which I had made an offer to purchase. I was investing in my first income-producing property and, to my delight, perceived that Father wished to participate. Niang was far from pleased and manoeuvred it so that Father and I were never alone.

During their stay, I vacated my bedroom for them. Byron remained upstairs while I slept on the livingroom couch. They must have sensed that our marriage was in trouble. Byron, meanwhile, was on his best behaviour. He arranged a big dinner in their honour at a fancy restaurant called Delaney’s and introduced my parents to all his colleagues, forgetting that I had never met his co-workers either.

Father, Niang and I were by ourselves when I drove them back to their hotel. Part of me longed to pour out the sorry tale of my disastrous marriage. Another part wished to maintain the facade of a daughter who was successful in every way: career, home life, health, money, adorable son, handsome husband. I despised myself for keeping up this pretence.

We chatted on and on about inconsequential matters for quite some time when Father asked unexpectedly, ’Tell me, Adeline, who paid for the dinner at Delaney’s last night?’

His simple question, coming out of nowhere, took me by surprise. Did Byron pay out of our joint account or his separate, personal account? I had no idea.

Meanwhile, Father was waiting for an answer. Somewhat defensively, I said, ’I really don’t know,’ adding with a forced laugh, ’Does it matter?’

’Sometimes,’ he advised, ’it is wise to pay attention to money matters. At present your career is just starting to take off. You’re young and healthy. The whole world is at your feet. If you’re careful, you have the opportunity to build up a large fortune. But it won’t always be like that. One day you will become old and feeble. Be sure you are prepared when that day

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arrives. You must arrange things so that you have control over your own money. Trust no one. People change and their feelings change also.’

Niang nodded in agreement. ’This husband of yours,’ she suddenly asked, ’is he all right? I mean, is he perhaps a little cracked in the head?’

I was astonished. I had often wondered myself about Byron’s sanity. Not wishing to reveal too much, I answered with a question, ’Aren’t we all a little crazy? He probably thinks I am the unbalanced one in the family.’

’The block of apartments you showed us two days ago,’ Father said, ’the one you are thinking of buying. Whose name will be on the deed as the legal owner?’

’I have put both our names down as the buyers, Father,’ I answered truthfully. ’This is the way it’s done in America. When we bought our house, it was also purchased in our joint names.’

’What you are doing is unwise and will lead to complications.’ Father admonished. ’ftjJL-ff-JlL Zhong gua de gua (You plant melons, you reap melons). When Byron was in Hong Kong, he and his father told us they had bought a property in Kowloon. Is your name on the deed there?’

I faltered, shocked. ’I don’t think so, Father. Byron never asked me to sign any papers.’ The conversation was veering painfully close to a discussion about the state of my marriage.

’Then why are you putting his name on your apartments when he has not contributed one cent towards their purchase? Don’t be naive, Adeline! Don’t think you are above these money matters, because you are not. Consult a good lawyer and make sure the property is in your name and your name alone. Do you hear?’

A lump appeared in my throat and my eyes were damp with tears. They had seen through my pretences. Father’s stern directives were his expressions of care and concern. He was trying to protect his daughter. I nodded my head and swallowed hard.

As we approached their hotel, Niang added, ’There is some—

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thing not quite right about that husband of yours. Remember, no matter what happens, your parents will always be your parents. Listen to your father and do what he says.’ Those were the kindest words she ever said to me.

I mulled over their advice during the long drive back. Though they did not come out and say so, indirectly they were signalling that I should get a divorce. I decided to act and consult a lawyer immediately. They had given me permission to do so.

A few days later, armed with a legal document prepared by a. divorce lawyer, I waited for Byron to come home. After we had eaten dinner and Roger had been put to bed, I went into the livingroom and sat next to Byron on the couch. Together we watched a televised boxing match. Eventually I plucked up enough courage to hand him the document and explain its contents, informing him that his signature was needed.

Byron glanced glumly at the paper and went back to the boxing while I held my breath. Finally he enquired whether I was asking him for a divorce and was there someone else? Something in the bleakness of his voice touched my heart. I started to cry, ’No, there is no one. I sincerely believe this is best for all three of us.’ For the first time I saw anguish in his eyes. Wishing to lessen the hurt, I added, ’I’m truly sorry. We both took a gamble and we both lost.’

A few weeks later Byron did sign as requested. Afterwards he locked himself upstairs, coming down only for his meals, which he took up to eat alone. Having made up my mind, I was strangely at peace and hoped for an amicable parting. That Christmas, I bought him a gold watch, wrapped it in pretty paper and placed it on his pillow. Ginger signalled to me the next day to follow her to the back of the house. There I saw my gaily wrapped gift discarded in the garbage can, unopened and still beribboned.

The day after Christmas Byron was transferred to work in Oceanside. My lawyer served him with divorce papers before he left for Hong Kong again some time in 1971. He offered not

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to contest the suit if I signed over my half-share of the Fountain Valley house and if I desisted from making demands for alimony or child support. I acquiesced immediately and moved into another house. After the divorce, Byron neither wrote to nor saw his son again. ! .

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Hearts Reduced to Ashes

In 1965 while the Vietnam War was raging, Father moved his enamelware factory from Hong Kong to Port Harcourt in Nigeria, with the help of a generous subsidy from the Nigerian government. He went into partnership with his foreman, Mr Fong. It was a major undertaking, including the transport of numerous pieces of machinery and hundreds of skilled Hong Kong workers. Living quarters for the Chinese staff were built in Port Harcourt alongside new factory buildings and administrative offices.

That same year Gregory married Matilda, a Chinese girl whose parents were part of the wave of talent that flooded south from Shanghai in 1949. They appeared overjoyed when their daughter married into our family. At that time, Father was considered one of Hong Kong’s moneyed elite and Gregory, the oldest son, his heir apparent.

Father made Gregory manager of the Nigerian factory. Soon after their wedding, the newlyweds moved into a bungalow next to the plant in Port Harcourt. Away from family and friends, deprived of social and cultural outlets, or even a decent grocery store, Gregory and Matilda found life in Africa harsh and lonely. James continued to work for Father in Hong Kong.

In October that year the Star Ferry Company applied for a

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rise in the fare for the seven-minute ferry ride across Victoria Harbour, at that time the only means of transport between Hong Kong and Kowloon. Though the fare was modest, and had not risen since 1946, there were sit-in protests, demonstrations and rioting which resulted in one dead and many injured.

A collective shudder shook the colony. Suddenly every Hong Kong resident was asking himself, what if the Communists should march into Hong Kong? Where would he go without a valid foreign passport? Who would accept him?

In our family, Father had become a naturalized British citizen in 1955. Niang was a French citizen from birth. Lydia was in Tianjin and, in Father’s view, ’lost to the Communists by her own choice’. Susan and I, being under twenty-one, had the right to British citizenship when Father was naturalized. My three brothers, however, remained Chinese citizens and this worried them.

In Port Harcourt, Matilda was now pregnant and Gregory wrote to Father suggesting that they should return to Canada where they had both been students and try to obtain Canadian citizenship. Moreover, it would be better for their baby to be born there. During his absence, Gregory suggested that James could take over temporarily in Nigeria.

A few days later, Gregory had second thoughts. Oscillating between his loathing for the Nigerian lifestyle, his fear of statelessness and his concern that James might usurp him, he wrote a follow-up letter asking to remain in Nigeria after all. It was too late. Father wrote to say that he had decided to replace him with James.

His letter continued, ’The Fongs have brought to my attention that you have been squandering the Company’s money.’ Gregory and Matilda were accused of spending extra money on food and drink, besides taking a nap once after lunch to escape the relentless heat of a West African afternoon. Father ended his letter by demanding a satisfactory explanation for such wasteful extravagance.

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No word of thanks for all that Gregory had accomplished, only a trial without jury, dismissal and banishment from Father’s enterprises. Gregory did as he was told but the injustice rankled, and it was hapless James who became the target of his frustrations.

In April 1966, an industrial dispute in Hong Kong led to a clash between strikers and strike breakers. Those were the months immediately preceding the Cultural Revolution which was shortly to convulse China. The chaos on the mainland eventually spilled over into Hong Kong and Portuguese Macau. Leftwing circles mounted full-scale riots against the police. Anticolonial slogans were plastered everywhere. Loudspeaker; blared forth pro-Communist propaganda. Bombs were founc in the streets. Stones and insults were hurled at foreigners. In Macau, Portuguese troops opened fire and killed eight people.

Hong Kong residents became panic-stricken when report; reached them about the activities of the Red Guards and their reign of terror on the mainland. Most people were convince! that China was about to take over Hong Kong and drive out the British. Everyone wanted to sell. No one was buying. Properties were being dumped for a song. There was a run on th stock market and prices plunged.

Along with thousands of Hong Kong’s most affluent residents, my parents fled. They went to Monte Carlo, where they bought a flat overlooking the Mediterranean. Father adopted wait-and-see attitude, transferring most of his liquid assets to Swiss banks, but holding on to his Hong Kong propertie They returned in early 1967, after the Portuguese government startling offer to surrender Macau was dramatically refused by China. This gesture made it clear that both Hong Kong and Macau were to remain western-administered colonies for the time being. Prices remained depressed and did not begin to recover until the end of 1968.