10,000 Miles From Home
Nathalia Li
Copyright 2012
Smashwords Edition
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July 5, 1984: Thursday
The train lurched to a steely screeching halt. Nick Durand had rolled sixteen hours from Xuzhou near the eastern coast to Xian in the center of China. He stared out the window to the concrete platform where the crowd swirled.
He had traveled almost a thousand miles. He couldn’t put into words exactly why. He had told her he would come. It wasn’t as if he were in love. But he knew that if he didn’t come, he would never see her again. Whatever his feelings, he couldn’t choose to turn away from her forever when simply by crossing the country he could keep alive the possibility. He had no illusions about certainty, but insofar as it was within his control, he wanted to protect the possibility. For reasons he couldn’t explain. For reasons he didn’t understand.
He descended the cast iron steps of the first class car one by one. The gray elevated platform was thick with rushing, bustling, impatient Chinese travelers. He surveyed the contesting currents. He had hoped it would be easy, that as he stepped off the train she would be waiting. But if she hadn’t received his telegram, she wouldn’t be here. If she weren’t here, he had no idea how to find her. In this crowd, with all the commotion and confusion, she could be inches away without his seeing her. Hoisting his backpack on his shoulder and lifting his suitcase, he joined the stream.
All around him Chinese hustled urgently to get on or get away from the train. A few stared at him, as people often did in Xuzhou. Xian is a larger, more cosmopolitan city, so its people are more accustomed to foreigners. He aimed for the exit thinking, hoping, she might be there. Passengers impatiently crowded the Way Out to hand their tickets to the railway workers in dark blue military-style uniforms. Then they filed one by one through tall wooden turnstiles.
On the far side of the gate speaking to a female worker, he saw her. As she spoke her eyes anxiously searched the scurrying multitude. He lunged forward, as if in the next instant she might disappear, lost to him. Startled, the Chinese separated, not wanting to obstruct the foreign devil’s passage. Hurriedly Nick extended his ticket stub at the worker and squeezed his luggage and himself through the prongs of the turnstile. He was five feet from her when she turned and walked away. He called, waved, but in the noisy swarm he failed to catch her attention. Struggling with his awkward, thumping suitcase, he hobbled forward doing his best to avoid colliding with the shorter, smaller bodies single-mindedly and unpredictably crisscrossing his path. He closed the distance, reached, stretched his arm. His fingertips grazed her shoulder.
“Li Xiuli.”
She wheeled, irate. Instantly her expression resolved into beatific pleasure.
“You come. I am so happy.” She smiled radiantly, eyes shining. Clapping her hands, she bounced on her feet with excitement and delight. Her arms rose to embrace him, but she caught herself, withdrew. “I look everywhere. I am afraid not find you. Think maybe you no come.”
“Yes, me too. How are you?” He faced her, relieved and pleased. He wanted to hold her, embrace her. As a kindness she might allow it, but he knew that here such intimacy was beyond the conventions of public propriety. She would feel embarrassed and scandalously conspicuous.
“I am fine. Please.” She grabbed at his suitcase. She was small and slight, barely five feet tall, less than ninety pounds.
“No, no. I’ll carry it. It’s heavy.” He wrestled with her for control of the bag.
“No, you are guest. I will be shame,” she insisted, tugging stubbornly at the handle. “I must. You guest. You teacher. I am respect.”
He wrested the suitcase from her. “It’s okay.” The bag wasn’t that heavy, but allowing her to carry it contradicted his conception of courtesy. In such small gestures, mere good manners at home, even though paradoxical insults here, he found comfort.
She fought to pry the suitcase from his grasp. Her eyes expressed such painful desperation that finally he had to relent.
“This way. Come. We find my boyfriend, Xiao Zhou.” Gripping the suitcase with both hands, dragging it with tense effort, she led him through the cavernous station toward the high, wide-open doors into open air and blue sky. The late morning sunshine of early July glazed the world with a painful brilliance.
On the gray plaza in front of the ponderous Soviet-style depot Xiao Zhou stood in the sun nervous and impatient. He was tall, thin, with glasses, but handsome and healthy. He wore indigo cotton slacks and a white short-sleeve shirt over a jersey t-shirt. He was six years younger than Li Xiuli. In Chinese “boyfriend” denotes “fiance”. They had been engaged for a year and planned to marry the following February during Spring Festival, the celebration of the Chinese New Year. Li Xiuli was near thirty, and at her age to have found a husband, especially an educated, potentially prosperous one, was a miracle. In China a single woman beyond thirty is an outcast.
Xiuli carefully articulated the formal introductions she had learned in her English classes.
Xiao Zhou extended his hand, smiling, eager, and tense. “I please meet Teacher Dran.” He struggled laboriously to enunciate each rehearsed word. Even so Nick had difficulty understanding what he said.
“Thank you, Xiao Zhou. Julie has spoken of you often.”
Xiao Zhou’s face registered confusion. He spoke rapidly in Chinese to Xiuli.
Earlier in the year, Xiao Zhou was so concerned about Julie’s, Xiuli’s English name, relationship with Nick that he tried, unsuccessfully, to get leave from his job to travel to Xuzhou.
“Xiao Zhou does not speak English. He understand when you talking slow, but speaking is difficult.”
“Okay,” Nick said, and nodded to reassure the agitated, awkward young man.
As they left the station, Xiao Zhou took the suitcase from Julie. She explained that she had arranged for Nick to stay nearby at the Peace Hotel. They walked so Nick could see the city.
The sidewalks were dense with people. Bicycles, with warning bells constantly ringing, crowded the streets. Drivers honked their horns, intensifying the cacophony. Nick was impressed with the city’s cleanliness. He was accustomed to Xuzhou’s gray layers of dirt, coal dust, and trash; but Xuzhou was a poorer area without the history, diversity, or cultural cachet of Xian, which centuries ago was the capitol of China. Also, Xian was five times larger than Xuzhou. As they walked Xiao Zhou and Julie spoke in Chinese.
Julie wore a yellow and white shirtwaist dress that fell just below her knees. Her long straight hair was tied in a ponytail. She had glasses with black frames. Her face was round with bright, quick eyes that sparked excitedly when she smiled. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she was so cute that it was impossible to parse the difference. Generally she wore an expression of somber thoughtful intelligence, but today she glowed with pleasure. At the National Coal Ministry’s Institute of Mining in Xuzhou she was a graduate student in geological hydrology. Her specialty was the problem of ground water in coal mining.
Nick had met Julie at the Institute where he was one of three American teachers of English. She was in the advanced class, one of fifty students assigned to the Foreign Language Institute for a year’s intensive study of English. They had become friends quickly and easily. But they had to be careful; the restrictions against familiar relationships between students and foreigners were severely enforced. One girl Nick visited, innocently, in her dorm room subsequently had to perform public self-criticism. Later, the Authority of the Institute criticized her and forbade her from associating with or speaking to any of the foreign teachers.
Crossing a large park Nick saw in front of them a daunting five-story building that resembled a prison. Julie identified it as the Peace Hotel. From the central entrance at the top of a wide stairway the building extended on each side for fifty yards. He’d seen many similar buildings in China. During the fifties when The People’s Republic and the Soviet Union were allies, the Russians provided economic aid to the Chinese. Included was the construction of public buildings, government offices, train stations, and hotels in the socialist style that was architecturally and politically obligatory
On the far side of the park they approached a checkpoint manned by two uniformed young men who watched them approach with stern concentration. The men, boys really, were on the brink of exercising their dour authority when Julie waved and shouted a greeting, smiling, friendly. She chattered in Chinese. As she spoke each of the young men, without taking their eyes off her, took two steps back. They were so disarmed by the assurance of her charm that they raised no objection when she advanced between them and called in English to Xiao Zhou and Nick to follow. The three of them continued across the grounds to the arched entrance and climbed the eleven steps to the wide, heavy, wooden doors.
The lobby was dark and musty. Their footsteps echoed on the parquet floor. Pale sunlight glowed yellow through two high narrow windows illuminating particles of dust in the air as if they were tiny floating stars. At the registration desk Julie spoke to the oily, grinning, middle-aged clerk. He wore a maroon sports jacket with a black collar over white shirt and black tie.
Nick presented his passport and teaching credentials, as well as a card issued by the Coal Mining Ministry, his ultimate employer, entitling him to the discount rates granted foreign teachers by the Chinese government. Registration took nearly half an hour. Finally the clerk handed Julie a key which she passed to Nick. The number three-eleven was stamped in yellow on the brown plastic tag. Xiao Zhou, lugging the suitcase, and Julie accompanied Nick thirty yards along a shadowy hallway to the elevator. As they waited, a passing bellboy spoke to Xiao Zhou. The elevator was not working. So they climbed the curving marble staircase to the third floor.
The room was small and dark, warm and close. To the right of the door was a small bathroom with ancient fixtures, an old streaked mirror, a tiny sink, and a makeshift shower. Two full-size beds took up most of the floor space. On a small unsteady nightstand stood a brass lamp with a frail red and white shade. In front of a dull spotted mirror on top of the dresser sat a purple thermos containing hot purified water. Fixed to the wall above each bed was a tiny lamp covered by an orange shade with yellow fringe. On the beds were thick green quilts elaborately embroidered with dragons, a traditional symbol of good luck. The single window was covered by a creamy soiled shade and partly filled by a large, dark-brown, antiquated air-conditioner. Nick moved the shade to peek outside. He saw an unkempt lawn and a small area strewn with wood and machinery. A worn path cut diagonally across the grass.
Nick sat on one bed; Julie, on the other, facing him. Xiao Zhou leaned back against the dresser, his arms folded. The tense discomfort of “What next?” permeated the air. Following a minute of heavy silence, in desperation Nick inquired about Xiao Zhou’s work. He was an electrical engineer for a company in Xian. Julie asked about Nick’s recent travels through Nanjing, Shanghai, and Hangzhou. He recounted for her the most interesting of his experiences: the dance performance in Shanghai; the serene beauty of West Lake in Hangzhou with its huge goldfish; his stay in the dorm of a girl’s art school in Nanjing. She asked about people they knew in Xuzhou and where else he planned to go during the summer vacation.
“From here I’ll return to Xuzhou. Then I will go to Hong Kong and fly home to the US. While I was in Shanghai I made my plane reservation.”
Julie was stunned. Xiao Zhou looked on uncomprehending.
“You go America? You do not stay China teach English?”
“No. I’m going home.”
Julie was unnerved by his unexpected declaration. Unsure how to respond and unwilling to risk discussing this complex, and possibly sensitive, development with Xian Zhou present, she asked Nick what he wanted to do while in Xian.
“You and Xiao Zhou know the city. You are the experts. I put my trust in you. Whatever you decide is fine.”
In Chinese the two of them discussed the possibilities. Julie suggested that one evening he might come to her family’s home for dinner. She had told him about the travails of her family during the Cultural Revolution, and he was curious to meet and talk to her parents.
She said that he must be tired after his trip. Despite his protestations, she insisted that he rest. They would return at five o’clock to take him out for dinner. With effusive courtesy Xiao Zhou kept offering his welcome and good wishes until Julie took his hand and led him away.
Nick hadn’t eaten since the night before, but it was decided. He lay down and tried, restlessly, to sleep. Eventually the air-conditioner cooled the room slightly, enough to hold the afternoon heat at bay, and he dozed.
By five he was ravenous. He paced between the door and the window, trying to ignore his hungering stomach. They said five, didn’t they? Had he misunderstood? Just past five-thirty the phone on the nightstand tinkled weakly. Julie and Xiao Zhou were at the front desk. They had been waiting for forty-five minutes. Why didn’t they come up to the room, he wondered. He hurried downstairs.
At a leisurely pace they crossed the wide green expanse of the park. Xiao Zhou asked innumerable questions about Nick’s opinions of China. Julie translated Xiao Zhou’s questions and Nick’s answers. She walked between them eager to encourage conversation. Repeatedly Xiao Zhou complimented Nick on his insight into Chinese life and society. Nick understood that Xiao Zhou’s obsequious attention was an annoying but inescapable courtesy; the boy’s relentless curiosity and reflexive approbation were less a matter of insincerity than obligatory politeness. Nick still found it irritating.
They walked for over a mile. Already starving, Nick was on the verge of suggesting that they stop at the next restaurant on the street. He was working up the will to say so when Julie and Xiao Zhou stopped in front of a storefront on a street with a pandemonium of pedestrians, honking cars, and hordes of bicyclists. The facade was dark brown, wooden and dilapidated, with a recently painted black door. A corrugated metal roof overhung the sidewalk.
Xiao Zhou opened the door and waved for Nick to follow. Julie pulled on the material of his shirt urging him forward. Inside, a fair-sized room held a dozen empty tables, each covered with a white linen tablecloth. Tinny, sweet music supported a female teenage voice; the volume was mercifully low.
A short, slender, middle-aged man in a light gray suit stepped from the back of the room and approached. He greeted Xiao Zhou calmly, but it was Julie who did the talking. The man nodded patiently, spoke a few words, then gestured for them to follow him. He led the way to the back of the room and through a heavy dark blue silk curtain with colorful, detailed embroidery. They walked single-file behind the man through a narrow hall dimly lit by lamps along the walls every six or eight feet. Halfway down the hall he stopped, opened another door, and extended his hand, inviting them to enter.
Nick followed Xiao Zhou and Julie into a small room. The walls were a deep red brocade with designs of threaded gold. In the middle four plush purple chairs surrounded a dark, square, wooden table. In the center of the table sat a candelabrum. The man rushed to light the eight white candles with a wooden match. Then he pulled out the chair on the far side of the table. He spoke to Julie.
“He asks you sit,” she said to Nick.
The man smiled encouragingly, as if trying to entice a small child.
“Oh. Okay.” Nick walked behind the table and took his chair.
Next the man pulled out the chair to Nick’s left and looked at Julie. She thanked him and sat. Before the man could circle the table, Xiao Zhou took the chair to Nick’s right, opposite Julie.
The man paused, straightened to his full height, as if he had expected Xiao Zhou to allow him to pull out his chair as well. He spoke briefly to Julie and Xiao Zhou, who conferred briefly before she responded. He nodded, nearly bowing. Then he did bow to Nick as he backed out of the room and pulled the door shut.
“What’s going on?” Nick asked.
“Mr. Xiong is owner of restaurant,” Julie said. “He welcomes you here. Your visit honors him. He wishes you good health, good luck, and great happiness.”
“He is very kind. Please tell him if he returns that I am grateful for his good wishes.”
“Yes, I say him before. He say his whole family is honored with you visit tonight.”
Just then the door opened. A tiny wisp of a girl, maybe fourteen, entered holding a silver tray in both hands. She wore black slacks and a white blouse buttoned to her neck. The platter held a white teapot and three small white teacups. She was so nervous that the teapot and cups rattled as she slowly approached the table and set the platter on it. She gave each of them a cup, then poured the green tea. She kept her eyes down, not daring even a glance at Nick. When her task was complete, she turned quickly for the door, not even hesitating for Julie’s words of thanks, and disappeared, closing the door behind her.
They sipped the hot tea. Nick assured Julie and Xiao Zhou that he liked the restaurant. In truth the restaurant itself didn’t matter; he was so hungry he’d have eaten the linen napkins and tablecloth. Within minutes, mercifully, a young male server arrived. He wore the same black slacks and white long-sleeved shirt as the young girl. He brought with him a bowl of Chinese vegetables (bamboo shoots, onions, water chestnuts, and red peppers) in a spicy sauce and a steaming soup with wontons. He ladled the soup into bowls and handed one to each of them.
For the next three hours the server reappeared every half-hour with another dish or two: Szechuan Pork, beef with broccoli, lamb with scallions, huge shrimp in garlic sauce, pork fried rice, stir-fried chicken with roasted chili, seven treasures rice. In addition to the requisite green tea, they drank Japanese beer, rice wine, and a potent unidentified clear liqueur, in cups only slightly larger than a thimble, that going down burned. The coup de grace was an eighteen-inch carp, which must have weighed six pounds. The server made a point of honoring Nick by setting the fish’s head in front of him.
Nick thanked the man in Chinese: “Xie xie.”
When the server left, Julie instructed Nick to divide the fish into portions for each of them. Nick stared into the carp’s eyes as he prepared to do his honorary duty. The beast was so beautiful it seemed a crime to cut him up. But he did.
Nick ate all he could of the fish, but when he set his chopsticks down more than half the fish remained on the platter. Not long after the server returned with a final large bowl of white rice.
“Oh, I can’t eat any more, Julie. I’m too full.”
“No. Please. We must. Mr. Xiong has insult without our eat rice. We must. We cannot offend Mr. Xiong.”
Xiao Zhou spoke hastily to Julie.
“Xiao Zhou say if no rice at end of meal, he feel he does not eat anything. Must eat rice. Is . . . ” she struggled for the words, “is final happiness. Must.”
So Nick spooned a few clumps of hot white rice into his bowl and pushed it down his throat. Xiao Zhou, eating his own bowl of rice, regarded Nick triumphantly. Nick ate as much as he could, took three final swallows of green tea, and reclined in his chair.
Julie spoke to Xiao Zhou in Chinese. She rose from her chair and left the room. Nick could hear her talking with someone in the hall. . Xiao Zhou made a stab at conversation, but Nick couldn’t make sense of his erratic pronunciation, confused syntax, and limited vocabulary. Julie returned.
“As my mother used to say, I won’t be able to eat for a week,” Nick said to Julie.
She looked at him uncomprehending. Quickly she translated for Xiao Zhou who also didn’t understand.
“But you must eat,” Julie said. “Or you come ill. You need food for strong in Xian.”
“It’s an expression. An exaggeration. It’s like saying that I ate so much I won’t need more food for a week.”
“Oh. But you must eat. Every day.” Julie spoke rapidly to Xiao Zhou. They conferred, mystified.
“Doesn’t matter, Julie. It’s a misunderstanding. It would take too long to explain. Don’t worry.”
“Food is healthy. You do not like?” She had panic in her eyes.
“It’s delicious. Excellent. I expected dinner, but this,” he extended his hand over the table, “is a feast.”
She remained anxious.
“Please, Julie, let me pay for dinner.” He reached for his billfold.
Her entire body recoiled, and her face was stricken with horror. “No, no. Please. You are guest. You my teacher.”
“I can afford it. You need your money. I don’t mind. I want to. It will be a kindness if you allow me to treat you and Xiao Zhou. Consider it a gift from me for your wedding. Since I won’t be here.”
Julie squeezed her eyes shut and put her hands over her ears.
Nick knew that she made only two hundred fifty yuan a month, about thirty dollars, compared to his three hundred dollars. But he couldn’t change her mind. In the end she insisted that because he was her guest and her teacher she must pay. Courtesy, self-respect, mere civility—all demanded it.
Mr. Xiong reappeared. He inquired if they had enjoyed their dinner. They spent fifteen minutes assuring him that it had been exquisite. At last, the duty of good manners having been met to his satisfaction, Mr. Xiong could allow them to depart. They followed Mr. Xiong back along the narrow corridor in single file.
In the main dining room most of the tables were occupied. Crossing the room, Nick felt all the Chinese eyes upon him, and the volume of conversation diminished perceptibly.
Outside, standing on the sidewalk, Mr. Xiong thanked them for dignifying his restaurant and his family. They thanked him profusely for their spectacular meal. Mr. Xiong insisted on shaking Nick’s hand. A few more good-byes and they were able to leave. Mr. Xiong stood on the sidewalk and waved until they could no longer see him.
The setting sun cast the city in a dusty brown haze. The sidewalks were crowded; walking three abreast was a challenge. They surveyed the shops and people. A few foreign tourists wandered along dazed and apprehensive but gamely curious. The melodious singsong of Chinese voices provided an exotic, undulating accompaniment. Venders sold food and trinkets.
As they walked, they discussed a plan for the next day. Julie enthusiastically suggested a visit to the Bell Tower. Nick assured her that he was happy to do whatever she recommended. He was relieved to hear that Xiao Zhou had to work until five o’clock.
Xiao Zhou’s presence required that the conversation remain casual and light. All Nick could do was endure. If Julie shared his desire for meaningful and personal conversation, she did not show it. Nick kept wishing they could lose Xiao Zhou. He was tired of the tedious questions about his impressions of China and its people, questions he had answered a thousand times before. Nick felt a discouraging isolation and loneliness.
Gradually, they guided him back to the Peace Hotel. As they approached the checkpoint, the sole guard estimated them carefully. To avoid a confrontation, Xiao Zhou and Julie said good night. In the near dark, Nick crossed the dewy green grass and climbed the stone steps. Weary and despondent, he wondered if coming to Xian was a mistake.
July 6, 1984: Friday
Nick spent an unsettled night in the unfamiliar bed. He woke early, still tired. He relished the shower’s cool water. Dressed and ready, he sat on the bed reading while he waited. At ten-thirty the phone jingled thinly. A male voice spoke rapid-fire Chinese.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” Nick said.
More racing Chinese, then whoever it was hung up.
Maybe I should go downstairs, he thought. The phone tinkled.
“Hello?”
“Wei?” The standard Chinese telephone response, but this speaker was female.
“Hello?”
“Nick. Is Julie.”
“Did you just call?”
“Yes, worker of hotel. He call. I ask.”
“Okay. Are you downstairs?”
“Yes, by big desk. Please come.”
“I’ll be right there.”