Memories of the Middle Kingdom

by

Garry Engkent

IN THIBEAULT FALLS, the Chinese community is small – less than one hundred including newborns – and the circle of women even smaller. These mainly middle-aged wives get together, usually about once a month, to socialize and gossip about everything and nothing: their children, their husbands, their steadfast routines and their constant adjustments to gum san, the gold mountain. However, their conversation always drifts back to the homeland they emigrated from.

This week is Mrs. Chang’s turn to host. She is looking forward to this gathering. She wants to make a good impression. Today is a special occasion for the group. Mrs. Lim is bringing a recent arrival, a Mrs. Tong. Mrs. Chang is pleased because now the membership is growing from five to six. They all want to hear what Mrs. Tong has to say. Over the years, the group has become familiar with each member’s trials and tribulations. Talk has become stale and staid. Now, with Mrs. Tong – new blood, new old news about the world they left behind.

It isn’t that Mrs. Tong is absolutely fresh off the boat from the old country. The Tong family has lived in Vancouver and Toronto for more than two years. Mr. Tong wants to get away from big city living. He, his wife, and a son, born in the old country, want to escape the packed apartment high rises and cluttered streets. Big fan gwei cities – too much like Hong Kong – oppress the spirit. Ironically, the Tongs have to settle, at least temporarily, in a cramped room above the restaurant. 

Mr. Tong has been hired as a cook at the Golden Pagoda. The family has settled in Thibeault Falls for about a month now, and Mrs. Tong is eager to meet the other ladies in a strictly different setting, social rather than work.

“Welcome, welcome,” Mrs. Chang says sincerely as she opens the door to her first two guests. She gives a nod of acknowledgement to Mrs. Lim for bringing Mrs. Tong. She makes a show of hospitality for the new guest as they enter her cramped apartment.

She opens a tin of almond cookies, a box of black bean tarts, and a packet of jellied candies and arranges them on the table. She has decided on oolong tea rather than the usual jasmine that the other ladies serve in their turn. The water is already boiling in the kettle on the electric element on top of the Formica-covered kitchen counter. She has set out ceramic teacups and an extra large guest teapot with designs of phoenixes and dragons.

Mrs. Tong surveys her host’s home without making it obvious that she is doing so. She has seen how other Chinese families live in the big cities of gum san. Those families generally live above the restaurant or laundry or dry/wet goods store, where the husbands and wives come down to work each and every morning, Sundays and holidays included. A lot of the establishments house their workers and their small families in small bedrooms – a convenience for both employers and employees. As a community, they eat, sleep and socialize together, almost like close relatives, sharing familiar noises, smells and habits. To her, Mrs. Chang is living in luxury. She has a whole apartment – living room, tiny kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom – to just her husband, children and self. She and her family live blocks away from the Golden Pagoda Restaurant. They have a certain amount of privacy.

“So opulent,” Mrs. Tong compliments. She gives her hostess a small gift – a glass vase stitched entirely with colourful plastic weaving.

The other three members of the group come a bit late. Mrs. Ko, Mrs. Wu and Mrs. Tsu make their apologies. Wednesdays are usually slow business days but not this mid-week. Both Mrs. Ko and Mrs. Tsu work in the Panama Café kitchen, washing dishes and chopping vegetables for the cooks. The luncheon special was particularly popular today. At Sam Wu’s Dry Cleaning, an assistant has come in for work late, and Mrs. Wu must cover for her at the front counter. Now the members of the tiny group are all here.

The ladies are all anxious to hear and talk to the newcomer, Mrs. Tong. She does not disappoint. She seems so starved for friendship that she opens up when she inwardly knows she must be cautious among these women. Yet she is observant of all her new neighbours and acquaintances.

“I am so happy to meet you,” Mrs. Tong gushes. 

NOW IT IS FOUR MONTHS LATER, and Mrs. Tong has settled in with the other ladies . . . and with their particular and peculiar observances, frets and regrets. Over consecutive meetings, she has learned a lot of everyday private and personal information – some straightforwardly given, some surmised about each family and the individuals therein. It is her turn to host the gathering of the ladies. They are more than mere acquaintances now, friends even. She knows what to expect but is still anxious. This is her first occasion and her first in her own apartment. Some distance from the Golden Pagoda. The ladies are curious to see her new abode.

“It is a nothing little place,” Mrs. Tong demurs with some pride. She is happy that the family moved out of the one-room bedsitter about a month ago. She barely has enough chairs and space for all the ladies to sit around the table but at least they can all congregate here. She hopes that one day the family may have enough money to buy a small house with a garden.

For this special occasion, Mrs. Tong has ordered items from Toronto. They are dim sum buns and delicacies brought back by Mr. Shum, the weekly travelling hauler who traverses up and down Highway 11 from Timmins to Toronto and back. The ladies are very impressed at such extravagance. 

“You know, my husband is trying to bring dim sum to this town,” Mrs. Ko says. Then she continues with the egg roll story – how hard it was for the fan gwei customers to accept this faux Chinese delicacy. Mrs. Tong has heard differing versions. The cooks at the Golden Pagoda have their own twists to the tale of bringing something Chinese to a small town. And Mrs. Tong has heard them more than twice.

Mrs. Ko has been in gum san Canada for about eight or nine years now, but she refuses to learn the English language proficiently. She knows enough kitchen fan mun, English, to understand orders from the white waitresses: french fries with gravy, hamburger, hot dog, today’s special . . .

“My husband and son translate for me if I need to speak to a lo fan,” she says with some satisfaction.

Mrs. Tong, Mrs. Wu and Mrs. Tsu nod sagely. Learning English proficiently would change them utterly. Now in a foreign place, they have attained some sense of contentment, even happiness, yet they do not want their Chinese souls to become fan gwei, changed utterly. 

“It is good that we can speak in our own language here together,” Mrs. Tong says. “We must keep hon mun, the sweet language, not only for us but also for our children . . . and children’s children.”

“Hai, hai, yes, yes,” Mrs. Wu nods. She and her husband own the only Chinese dry-cleaning and sewing business in town. Often she is at the counter, listening to her Canadian customers, nodding and only half-understanding what they want done to their clothes. She has to learn English, enough English, to keep the family business going. And to talk to her son, who speaks more English and less Cantonese every day.

Besides Mrs. Tong, Mrs. Tsu is the second latest arrival to Thibeault Falls. Her husband, who works as a waiter at the Panama Café, recently returned cured from the Gravenhurst tuberculosis facility, and brought her over from Hong Kong. Although pregnant now, she also works with Mrs. Ko in the kitchen, washing dishes, pots and pans, and helping chop vegetables. Mrs. Tsu is not happy but content enough, given all the demands and changes about her.

“My husband, Tommy, wants me to wear western dresses,” Mrs. Tsu mentions. “So costly. White women clothes show a lot of . . .” She demonstrates with her hands about her breasts.

“Vancouver has a Chinatown,” Mrs. Tong ventures on a different topic. “Sometimes it reminds me of Hong Kong. At least I can speak and everyone understands, even with all the dialects.” Her voice has a touch of regret, of something missing or lost. She did not want to leave haam soi fow, salt water city, Vancouver, but she is an obedient wife. She follows wherever her husband goes.

“Toronto also has a Chinatown, near Dundas Street,” Mrs. Ko adds.

But all the ladies are here in a small town, some three hundred miles north of Toronto the Good. Thibeault Falls is a place with nowhere to go. With none but each other to mingle and talk to. With only nostalgia and remembrances, with only longings for a past and a place they can no longer return to. Still, for all the comradery, they speak carefully.

Except . . .

“I miss my moi jai,” Mrs. Tong begins her reminiscence. “She was such a joy to have in the house. A pretty little thing, so eager to please. I had to train her, of course, as a maid. We used to own a small farm. We bought her when she was eight from a family with nine mouths to feed. Her family was very grateful.”

Mrs. Tong misses her old life in the Middle Kingdom. Mentioning Jee Lai, the child maid, started her reverie. The war with Japan had not affected the south as much although there was a high degree of anxiety and concern in the district. She was just two years into her marriage, and already she was with child. A moi jai could certainly help with the household routines made difficult by morning sickness and other soft maladies that come with carrying a baby in the womb. 

“She was a difficult moi jai,” Mrs. Tong recalls. Her eyes are miles and years away. “She knew nothing of manners – and her place in our household. Of course, I had to make her see things properly.”

Mrs. Ko’s hand trembles involuntarily. She tightens the muscles about her jaw so that she cannot scream out. She puts back her cup of tea carefully on the lacquered table. Mrs. Ko stares at this other woman with growing anger and contempt.

“Jee Lai became indispensable,” Mrs. Tong says. She suppresses a thought: She was almost family during that war. I had a miscarriage . . .

“My husband and I didn’t know quite what to do when later Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek left, and the Communists were taking over. They took over our fields and property. No wonder we decided to leave our homeland. They told us what we had to do with Jee Lai as well. Release her from servitude immediately, they demanded. We still had three more years before we were legally bound to discharge her. Three more years of service gone! Just like that!”

“What became of your maid, Jee Lai?” Mrs. Ko asks quietly.

“What could we do? We sent her back home when we decided to leave for Hong Kong,” Mrs. Tong says matter-of-factly. “Our obligations were over the moment we released her and she left our house.”

“Just like that?”

Mrs. Tong looks at Mrs. Ko for a moment. This wife of the Panama Café owner asks too intently, with far more than mild, courteous interest in the subject. 

“The communists banned the custom once they got into power,” Mrs. Chang volunteers.

“Well, you lived in hon san, the sweet land before the takeover. Surely you owned at least one moi jai,” Mrs. Tong says to Mrs. Ko.

“No.”

“Impossible,” Mrs. Tong replies, surprised. “Young girls are so plentiful and inexpensive. You would be doing the family – and yourself – a service. For the Leung family, one less mouth to feed, to clothe, to look after. It is charity.”

“It is not,” Mrs. Ko replies coldly. 

Mrs. Ko had seen things back in China. She remembers vividly. A proprietor would not necessarily have to be rich; even families with very modest income could afford a moi jai or two. A status symbol in the community as well as cheap labour. These very young girls were indentured to farms, households, and even factories. On the whole, they were worked to the bone, like slaves. Yes, the master and mistress had certain legal, social or even moral obligations, but more often than not, they ignored the rules. Abuse in varying degrees – whether sexual or physical or mental – was common, even rampant, and accepted. Such was the wretched life of a moi jai. 

Mrs. Ko can see in the faces of the ladies that her response needs further explanation. For all the times that this group has met and talked and complained, there are many things that have not been broached as if by silent, mutual consent. Now one subject has come to the fore. Should she reveal this part of her past to this group?

The room has become uncomfortable. No one dares to do anything, not even cough or put down a teacup. A pall is cast over the gathering. It seems even the inanimate objects, such as the figurines of Buddha and Kwan Yin, the goddess of mercy, are aware of the situation. 

“I just remembered,” Mrs. Chang says, breaking the awkward silence, “my husband needs me to do something at the Pagoda. I must leave.”

As if on cue, the other ladies begin murmuring similar excuses. Mrs. Tong senses a situation going out of her control. The ladies are noticeably uneasy, and she can see that in their faces and actions. To save face, she makes pleasant goodbyes as they leave one by one. Her heart pounds and her temples throb. Her smile is forced and tight.

Mrs. Ko is the last to step out of Mrs. Tong’s door.

“Goodbye.” There is a layering of meaning in how it is said. Mrs. Tong catches the implications.

“How did I offend you, Mrs. Ko?”

The wife of the Panama Café owner is in a quandary. Should she stop or keep walking and ignore the question? This moment may determine future moments in a small town like Thibeault Falls. She turns and looks at her hostess. She wants her face not to betray her feelings. 

The two women, standing awkwardly, look at each other. They are not friends even though they have met in the various abodes of every Chinese wife in this town on many occasions. They have only traded pleasantries and mutual hardships about work and immediate family, not about secrets and sorrows. They are acquainted with each other. Should she open up to someone who was, really, a stranger?

“I was a moi jai,” Mrs. Ko says flatly. She looks at the face of her hostess intently.

Mrs. Tong does not know how to respond to this surprising piece of information. It is unexpected, it is raw, it is revealing. She suddenly sees her earlier blunder. Did the other ladies know or suspect, she wonders. 

She regards Mrs. Ko in a different light suddenly. They are no longer mutual refugees from the ravages of the Middle Kingdom. They are truly not the same. It seems that this has always been so but has gone unacknowledged because of circumstance and deliberate avoidance in silent, communal agreement. In this new country, a new start – but that is not so. This Ko woman is well beneath her in social standing. They would not have met as equals had they still been in China. For all her and her husband’s accomplishments in gum san Mrs. Ko was and is a lowly servant in the other woman’s eyes. Just for a quick moment, Mrs. Tong wonders about her own position in this community.

The moment passes.

Mrs. Ko is holding back her tears but not her memories. There is nothing more to say to Mrs. Tong, for she has met that kind of woman before. She walks away.

AT THE AGE OF SEVEN, she was sold to the Lau family. She remembers vaguely the crying as the proprietors carried her away and the glimmer of sorrowful hope on her mother’s destitute face. She had a name but was renamed Xiao Hua, Little Flower. At first, she did not answer to that name, and she was punished. Many times. She wanted to run away, run back to her family and home – as poor and wretched as could be. But she did not know where home was, for the Lau family took pains to buy a moi jai several counties distant so that there would be no place to run back to. After a short while, Little Flower forgot about her parents’ home.

“You should consider yourself fortunate; you should be grateful,” Mrs. Lau said on many occasions, whether Little Flower needed the reminder or not. “You have clothes to wear, food to eat, and a bed to sleep in. Do you want to be a beggar in the alleyways?”

After all these years, Mrs. Ko can still hear the stinging voice of her mistress – sharp, harsh, cruel: “Why do I put up with you? Mo yong noi! Useless girl!”

Xiao Hua was taught to do all domestic and outdoor work. She learned to scrub, to sweep, to dust, to clean all manners of dirt and dung from kitchen to yard. Mrs. Lau was a hard mistress: she punished by withholding food, by demeaning and hurtful words, by sending her to sleep in the shed with the pigs and chickens. As well, Mrs. Lau forced her to learn to read and write. It was advantageous to the Lau family as they were looking ahead.

At the age of seventeen, Little Flower understood the reason for her proprietors’ largesse of an education for a moi jai. Mrs. Lau had invested ten years in Xiao Hua.

“She is a perfectly trained girl. Very obedient. Can read and write,” Mrs. Lau remarked to the matchmaker. “I have heard that there are some young men – rich ones – returning from gum san looking for wives. Xiao Hua should fetch a good price.”

The matchmaker inspected and appraised Little Flower. The girl was short, bony and not classically pretty but had youth and steadfastness on her side. She would make a dutiful wife. She would probably bear children well enough, given that Mrs. Lau had started giving the girl more food to eat. From long experience, the matchmaker found that marriage to a stranger was often a preferred choice rather than remaining as a moi jai to a severe family. Throughout the interview, the seventeen-year-old did not smile, she kept her eyes down on the floor, she did not say anything unless asked directly, she knew her place. The matchmaker could tell that Little Flower wanted out.  

As she was leaving, the matchmaker gave a piece of advice: “Don’t reveal she’s a moi jai.”

Ko Hien Luong was one such bachelor, returning to the sweet land. He had left his family home, his district, his China, when he was thirteen. In Canada, he worked for his clan uncle in a town named Thibeault Falls, in a restaurant called the Panama Café. He was aware of his familial and ancestral duties: buy land, get married, have children. It was time to begin his future, his dynasty.

When formally introduced, Xiao Hua had a quick look at her prospective husband. He was as nervous as she. He was expected to inspect this prospective bride and wife. She was only expected to stand still. He was not alone. He was with an older woman (his mother, Little Flower presumed) and equally old men (his uncles, no doubt) to advise him. They were more critical in assessing. They circled about her, observing critically. They questioned Mrs. Lau, who answered with notable nervousness.

“My Little Flower,” Mrs. Lau said, “is very precious to me.” Then she quickly listed Xiao Hua’s qualities. The prospective bride was well trained in the ways of household and familial duties. She could and would bear children, many children.

Everyone in the room recognized and understood the gambit: she wanted to extract a higher bride price.

Ko Hien Luong’s mother and uncles wanted to haggle. But Hien Luong settled on the fee, and Xiao Hua became his wife. That was, so paradoxically in the mind’s eye, a long time ago and seemingly just recently. A lot of things happened: happiness in marriage, a miscarriage, a long war, a husband returning to the village, another son, an escape, a life across an ocean. And now this.

Mrs. Ko walks away from Mrs. Tong’s place. She swears she will never go there, even for the meetings. She feels the stare from Mrs. Tong’s eyes on the back of her head. 

IT IS FIVE WEEKS LATER and Mrs. Ko has let the incident recede from her thoughts. Until she receives a letter in her mailbox. It comes from mainland China. Mrs. Ko is curious but also uneasy. Outside of the name of the home village, the return addressee and address are unknown to her, and yet this Canadian home address is clear. Mrs. Ko has always had her relatives in China send letters to the Panama Café with the restaurant address. She has never told anyone the other, private one. 

Citizen of New China: Ko Xiao Hua,

Come home! Do you not long to speak and write in your own birth tongue? Why suffer the customs of white strangers? Why twist your soul to people who both secretly and openly despise you?

Return home! The People’s Party, its members, and your relatives all want you home where you belong. All is forgiven. Your past will not be held against you. You and your family will be welcomed back with open arms . .

It goes on for a number of paragraphs, exalting the achievements of the People’s Party and its leader, Mao Tse-Tung. The letter extols a new paradise where all are welcome, where all prosper, where all are happy.

She wants to throw the letter as far away as possible and never see it again. But she does not. She folds it back into the envelope and puts it in her purse. 

Mrs. Ko remembers that time vividly. The cadres came, at first, with smiles, with open arms, with great promises. The poor and disenfranchised would find equality, sustenance, and real hope for a better future. Landowners, servants, everyone ate together in the communes. There were no classes. Everyone was equal. One society for all. For the greater good.

And then things began to change. Owners of property were first told to divest their land and then threatened when they did not. These were not landowners of huge farms, but just people with small plots, the size of gardens. In the evening, the cadres herded families out to the village square for nightly indoctrination. For hours. Every night. When one cadre became tired another took his place and with loudspeakers droned on about this perfect society. Those who attempted to leave before the end were harangued further and lost privileges to the communal suppers. They were publicly shamed.

Xi nao, brainwashing. Those who owned a house, a dwelling that had a servant or two, were brought to the village square. Mrs. Ko remembers vividly.

“You have been found exploiting the people for mercenary purposes,” the leading cadre of the People’s Party loudly accused the woman, crouched on her bloody knees. She had been dragged from her house, along several rows of dwellings and businesses, on the road. She was terrified and in tears, wailing. “We the people condemn this heinous act – and you!”

“Pardon, sirs, pardon!” she cried out. “I am guilty, guilty.”

“You must be cleansed of the old ways, those repressive customs of the capitalist empire. So that you can take in, whole-heartedly, the new and unsoiled doctrine in your mind.”

“Yes, yes!”

The Party member nodded and then instructed a recruit to hand the woman’s young son a thick stick. 

“Beat your mother with this. Hard. Remember how much you hurt the many times she slapped you.”

At first the boy was confused and hesitant. He waited for the nod of approval from his mother. He tapped her lightly with the stick. 

“Harder,” the mother instructed. “Again. Again!” 

She knew if her son did a poor job of beating, the family would pay for it later. In a worse way.

That was when Mrs. Ko knew that she and her infant son needed to escape, to go to Hong Kong, under British protection.

Remembering this event, Mrs. Ko is suddenly afraid, and her whole being starts to shake. Her legs become weak. She wants to scream out, but only lets forth a small sound from her throat. She is fully aware of the paradoxically subtle and overt threat to her and her family. 

They know where the Kos live. They know a lot more about the Ko family than they let on. They know about the other Chinese families in Thibeault Falls, in Canada. They are saying that there is no escape. They have eyes and ears even here in gum san, the gold mountain thousands of miles away from hon san, the sweet mountain.

Who in this small town would betray them? Who would want to? Why would they want to?

Almost immediately she suspects Mrs. Tong. That woman is judgemental and proud of her class in China. She has brought these attitudes here. Perversely she shows her disdain by denouncing the Ko family to the communists. Mrs. Ko decides to hate Mrs. Tong. Mrs. Ko decides to do a little more than that.

“Did you receive anything in the mail today?” she asks Mrs. Chang in the kitchen of the Panama Café.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Chang knows this small talk is not small talk to pass the time. There is a lot of kitchen work to be done before the noon luncheon special begins.

“Letters. Newspapers from China,” Mrs. Ko replies.

Mrs. Chang is hesitant to speak. She is making a decision. “Yes,” she says finally. She is aware of her friend’s attention. She becomes very uncomfortable, standing beside Mrs. Ko and washing the carrots, celery, green onions and potatoes. She knows she must elaborate.

Mrs. Ko is surprised at this brief response. Usually, Mrs. Chang could be relied upon to talk endlessly until the listener is tired of her voice. Her friend and co-worker’s disposition has changed radically.

“I have been receiving letters from the government,” Mrs. Chang admits. “And from family and relatives. They all tell me to come home. Forsake this gum san. Return and take care of my aged parents . . . ”

Mrs. Ko notes the similarity in content with these letters. “I wonder if the other women received similar letters and newspapers.”

Upon contacting their members, Mrs. Ko discovers that not only the group, but also other Asian residents are receiving letters and weekly newspapers from China. All the posts are specific in address and name of recipient. The subliminal message is clear: the government in China knows where you live . . . even in Canada. You cannot hide. You cannot escape. 

It becomes clear and obvious. Someone is spying on this small Chinese community. Someone in their midst. Someone whom they know . . . and possibly trust. Is it someone from their women’s club? Mrs. Ko hopes not, but . . . 

Mrs. Ko feels her heart pounding. Her face is grim, trying not to reveal emotion. She recalls the times in the village when relatives and neighbours were denounced and dragged off.  Shortly after, the names of the people under suspicion would be posted along with their crimes against the state. Some of these infractions were just talk among friends on the streets or among relations at home, yet somehow the Communist Party knew about what was said in ordinary conversation. A person had to be wary all the time. A thoughtless utterance could get one accused of dissention and seriously reprimanded. 

Now, even in Canada.