The Yellow Papers (4 page)

Chen Mu stared through the train window at the vastness of the prairies. He knew he was in trouble, but no matter what the consequences, he didn't regret his decision. If they had to go back to China after just nine years instead of the promised twenty, he would only do so after seeing the Venus flytrap. Otherwise, he would be no better than that scared and helpless little mouse that had arrived here so many years ago. He thought of the small boy who had been so afraid to leave his village, yet who now, at seventeen, felt more American than Chinese. How different had he really become?

Outside, the late afternoon sunlight contrasted with the cool dimness of the wagon, and the monotony of the landscape combined with the rocking of the steam train to create a hypnotic effect. He leaned back and closed his eyes, and images of these past years flickered across his memory. The faces of his many tutors. His schoolmates, and their awe at discovering the workings of machines and Mr Bell's telephone. But Chen Mu had never been interested in machines, and though he studied what was required, his one love was botany, and he had borrowed every book he could find to educate himself in this subject. He had been lucky that Teacher Yung had encouraged him in this, and had even introduced him to the writer Samuel Clemens, whose wife also loved plants. It was at her suggestion that he had started a notebook where he would draw the plants he learned about, then detail their growing requirements and how to propagate and cultivate them. He now had two such notebooks, which he took everywhere with him.

Teacher Yung Wing – how disapproving the other Chinese tutors had been when he married an American woman! Would Teacher Yung now be just as disapproving of what Chen Mu had done? He knew he would not be given permission for this trip, just as he had never been given permission to attend his mother's funeral, so he hadn't bothered asking. He'd simply decided that before heading back to China he would see for himself the plant Charles Darwin described as ‘the most wonderful in the world'.

He was going to the Green Swamps of North Carolina – the only place, according to Darwin, that the Venus flytrap grew – where the bog was so thick thorny vines were said to grow to the size of broom handles, and give shelter to rattlesnakes, copperheads and alligators. But the dangers of the Green Swamps didn't worry Chen Mu. The thought of a plant that actually ate insects was too extraordinary to dismiss, no matter what the dangers, no matter what the penalty. Though he'd left a note at the College, he knew the tutors would be angry, but this too didn't matter – he'd deal with the consequences when the time came.

It was almost dark when Chen Mu finally reached his destination, too late to look for the flytrap. He had to find lodgings for the night, but first he needed to eat. Carrying his small case in which he'd packed, along with a change of clothes, his notebooks, the jade brush-rest, and his signed copy of
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
, he headed for the centre of town. These items were his most prized possessions and always the first thing he packed, even if only for an overnight trip.

The night air was moisture laden, hot and sticky. Mosquitoes hovered around his face and his stiff cellulose collar chafed. He wished he could remove his jacket, but being a stranger here he didn't want to offend by being incorrectly dressed. He walked along the main street lost in thought, unaware of the chorus of frogs-calls filling the air, of the moonlight so bright it cast long shadows in the street; unaware of people glancing at him suspiciously as he passed.

He came to a tavern. At a long table by the window men sat talking amongst themselves, drinks in hand, waiting for their supper. On the bar was a hogshead of rum, and behind it were shelves stocked with Lisbon wine and decanters of brandy and Holland Gin. The walls of the room were covered with a profusion of messages, advertisements and legal notices. A placard of stagecoach routes, a woodcut of an enormous stallion rearing, and directly beside the bar the front page of that week's broadsheet lamented the shooting of President Garfield in Washington. By barrels of strong beer and hard cider, four men sat at a smaller table playing poker. The tavern keeper stood behind the bar, watching Chen Mu.

Chen Mu approached him.

‘You'd best just turn around and get out of here, boy.'

Chen Mu looked at the tavern keeper, confused. Had he offended in some way? He noticed for the first time the uncomfortable silence in the room. No one looked his way, except for the poker-playing men who stared and smirked.

‘Did you hear me, boy? I said go. Now.'

‘I'd like a meal first, if you please.' He spoke formally – English was not his language and he was conscious of the need to be polite. ‘I've been travelling for two days and I'm hungry. I'd like a meal. I do have money to pay …' and he dug into his pocket, but the tavern keeper grabbed his arm and led him outside.

‘Just go, lad. It's for the best,' he said quietly before turning away.

Chen Mu felt embarrassed, yet didn't understand why he'd been told to leave. His manner had been modest and polite, so why should he be refused service?

Well, so be it. He'd come this far and had no intention of leaving without seeing the plant. He'd find lodgings and at first light hire a guide, and insist they leave for the swamps there and then. He'd sketch in his notebook the plant in minute detail, then pick a number of flowers and leaves in different stages of development to press. When back in China he intended making a painting of them, to send to the Clemens of Connecticut, as a ‘thank you' for the friendship they had shown towards him.

He was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the two men and the woman following him, whispering and laughing, careful to keep a safe distance.

In the window of a house he saw the sign ‘Rooms' and knocked on the door. A woman answered, but when she saw Chen Mu she simply closed the door without asking him his business.

Suddenly it all made sense. The sudden silence in the tavern, the tavern keeper's refusal to serve him, and now this woman – he was not welcome in this town. He'd heard, of course, that Chinese people often met with prejudice and even violence, especially in the South, but as he'd never encountered such treatment in Connecticut he'd dismissed these stories as rumours. Anger replaced embarrassment and he considered returning to the tavern to demand service the same as any man, but then he remembered the smirk on the poker players' faces, and that the tavern had been packed, whereas he was here alone.

Behind him the two men gave the woman a small push forward, snickered and waved her on. She giggled, then straightened to her full height and raised her nose into what she believed to be an aristocratic expression. She patted her bonnet into place and removed her drawstring bag from the chatelaine at her waist. As she walked toward Chen Mu she swung her hips provocatively, the ruffles and bows above her bustle bouncing, the tassels on her bag swaying to and fro. She came abreast of Chen Mu and bumped into him, dropping her bag.

‘I beg your pardon,' Chen Mu said as he picked up the bag and tried to hand it to her, but the woman stepped back.

‘Help! Thief! He stole my bag!'

Chen Mu looked at her, bewildered. Saw the two men running towards him.

‘I—' but he saw the expression on the woman's face and instantly understood. He threw the bag at her and ran. Others joined the chase and Chen Mu could hear calls of
Stop the thief! Stop the Chink!
and he forced his legs to pump faster. His small leather case beat against his leg as he ran, bruising his leg, but he wasn't about to drop his treasures. His ears roared and he ran faster still, not knowing where to go. He heard a gunshot and panic overtook reason. He dived into an alleyway, crawled into an empty crate and curled up. He strained to hear the mob not far behind, but all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and his heavy breathing. He forced himself to breathe slowly, quietly. The pounding of running feet drew closer. Passed the alley. Grew weaker and died away. He crawled out of the crate and stood up.

The first punch hit him squarely in the face and broke his nose, followed by a second that split his lip. He fell back against the crates, dazed. Gagged at the blood trickling down the back of his throat. But the man who had followed him here and waited in this alley for his prey was on him before he could react. He fought back but the fighting he knew was the boxing they had been taught at the College – gentlemen's boxing – and of no use in an alley. The man's hands encircled his throat and his celluloid collar crackled as he felt consciousness ebbing and he knew he had to do something now or die. He groped the ground around him, hoping for something – anything – to help him defend himself. Fighting for breath, fighting the ringing in his ears. His hand gripped something long and hard. With all his strength he pounded his attacker's temple.

Chen Mu rolled his attacker off and gulped great lungfuls of air. He carefully felt his face. His cheeks were swollen and his nose and mouth bled, and his whole ribcage hurt when he breathed. He sat up.

In his hand he still gripped his weapon – a broken table leg, thick and solid and turned, with a brass claw and ball at one end, now stained with blood. He raised it to the man, ready to strike again if he moved, but the bloody skull showing large shards of bone impelled into brain tissue told Chen Mu this man would never move again. Bile filled his mouth and he vomited, and when he had no more to vomit still he retched in fear and confusion and panic.

He heard voices close by and froze, sure he would be found. Thrown in jail. Hung. A woman laughed and a man responded, passing the alley without a glance. Chen Mu knew he had to get away from here. From this town. Now. He found his small leather case and crept into the street, keeping to the shadows. When he reached the train station he hid for what seemed like hours until at last a goods train slowly pulled into the station and stopped. He watched the train driver unload a crate. Slowly, painfully, he made his way to a gondola stacked with shipping containers. Finding a gap between two, he climbed on and crawled between them just as the train started to move. He lost consciousness.

He came to sometime during the night. He tried to sit up but his body was too sore, and the space between the containers too tight. So he lay staring at the small gap of sky above as fragments of memory flashed through his mind. Sounds and smells and sights of long ago. Early mornings back in China, his village cloaked in mist. The throbbing of wings over the river. The soft lowing of the village buffalo. His mother ripping open her winter clothes to harvest the soft wadding from within.

Chen Mu lifted himself onto his elbows to ease the pain of his ribs. He didn't want to think of his village, because to think of his village meant thinking of his mother, thinking of how he had let her down. He hadn't understood, back then, why she was sending him away – he'd been too young. It was only years later that he'd realised what a sacrifice she'd made, what honours his Western education would bring to his mother, and indeed to the whole village. Yet in spite of this awareness he had shamed her memory by not performing his duties on her death, and now, by killing a man. And he could never undo that, no matter how much he wished otherwise. A murderer at seventeen. All for the sake of a plant.

He had no idea where this train was heading, but it didn't really matter. He knew he couldn't go back to Connecticut – no one there would help him. He had shamed the Chinese Educational Mission. Shamed Teacher Yung Wing. Even shamed the Clemens, who had taken such an interest in the Mission, and who'd opened their house and their library to him without restraint. And he couldn't go back to China, for most of all he had shamed China. He would have to lose himself. Perhaps head west. But he dismissed this idea instantly – after his reception down in the South, he didn't want more of the same. He tried to think of where he'd be safe. Perhaps he could head for Canada. He tried to plan further but was too sore, too tired. He slept.