The Lost Garden Read online

  Like every woman in love, she asked Lin about them.

  “They were all before you,” he said evasively.

  “How do I know you’re not still seeing them?”

  She persisted coquettishly but stubbornly, reassured by the sweet feeling of being in love and confident of his love of her.

  He was silent.

  Later, when they’d been together long enough to know each other well, she brought up the women again.

  “Do you think I’d let a woman control my life?” He continued in his usual arbitrary manner. “They listen to me; I don’t listen to them.”

  When she finally became his legally wedded wife, they reserved several floors of Taipei’s most luxurious hotel for a wedding that was viewed by socialites as “Taiwan’s wedding of the century,” and spent their first night as husband and wife in the presidential suite. As they exchanged rings, she thought back to the piercing heartache, despair, and fear she’d felt at the moment she’d learned that he had many women, and a wife.

  He never made excuses in the face of her questions, nor even feeble attempts to defend himself, which naturally caused her concern and apprehension. But the sweet sensation of romantic love hung on, and she thought everything would stay as it was. Vaguely she sensed that, as long as she could be with him, in the end she would be willing to accept these other women in his life. She was so in love with him that she all but abandoned herself to him. She just knew she could come around to that; besides, it was too early to talk about such things.

  He came to see her a few days after offering to buy the house. Contrary to his usual flair and directness, he was evasive:

  “I’ll be your big brother. If any of your boyfriends dare mistreat you after this, I’ll settle scores with my fists.”

  “Thank you for telling me that,” she replied softly.

  It was too much like the dialogue in a third-rate novel or a sappy movie, formulaic and clichéd. But the foggy, dreamy feeling was still there. Absentmindedly she wondered if he had just watched another movie on an airplane trip.

  When they reached her house, he stood at the door and asked abruptly, in the tone normally used on children, yet with total sincerity and the best of intentions:

  “Want me to kiss you?”

  They’d had many intimate moments in the past. She enjoyed leaning against his broad chest, her face close to his. On several occasions he’d made a move to kiss her, but she’d always managed to evade his advances, because romantic love meant too much to her. Delaying every stage in a relationship, she maintained the desired progress with great care, hoping to gain the ultimate experience at every stage so she could preserve all the perfect moments in her memory.

  She never imagined that what she’d treasured for so long would turn out to be a sort of consolation from him when they parted. Though he was gentle and tender, he was clearly telling her that she would have less to regret if he kissed her.

  With a shake of her head, she finally realized that they were saying good-bye for real.

  She told him not to call her again so she could forget him.

  “I can’t do that,” he replied calmly, showing a bit of hesitation for the first time that night. Then suddenly he moved closer, took her into his arms and continued in an even tone:

  “I know it’ll be wonderful being with you. You’ll be small and tight. You’ll grip me hard and bring me great pleasure …”

  Lin Xigeng’s tone of voice was unchanged and there was no hint of ambiguity in what he was saying. Nor was he trying to arouse her. They were saying good-bye, and this caught Yinghong completely by surprise; not until he’d had his say did some of the words get through, and she suddenly realized what he was talking about and exactly what those words referred to. Totally unprepared for what she was hearing, it dawned on her that the common, ordinary phrases he used were all about sex, and that, oddly enough, she was aroused.

  Submissive as usual, she followed his signal and dutifully opened the gate; they went to the yard, where she let him lead her hand down to touch him. Without thinking about where her hand was going, she stroked him as he desired, her heart nearly breaking over the idea that he was about to leave her. But he had already deftly undone his trousers to expose himself and was standing there otherwise fully clothed. The skill with which he had accomplished this shocked her.

  He must have known how to make love on various occasions, the only difference being the time, place, and the woman he was with.

  He slid his hand under her clothes to touch her. Like so many woman in love, she shied away from, even rejected a sexual encounter out of the pain of imminent separation, and when he saw that it was not to be, he led her in a different direction. Yinghong sensed his arousal in her hand and knew that there was no going back. A masculine instinctive ability to convey dominance was part and parcel of Xigeng’s personality. Confusion and admiration combined to prompt her to look down and gaze lovingly at what she held in her hand.

  “It’s so big.”

  Yet what filled her heart was the sorrow of the night, for when it was over she would never see him again, let alone the thing she was holding. With a mixture of what her rejection of a good-bye kiss had meant and the entangled emotions of loss in her mind, she looked down and stared dully at it. Then a pair of strong hands pressed down on her shoulders, and she knew what he wanted. So she bent down hesitantly as his hands brought her forcefully to the point where her lips touched it.

  She remained crouching for a long moment before changing positions to kneel in front of it. Having her on her knees heightened his air of potency as he stood there, and highlighted her constant submissiveness and obedience toward him. Fascination and admiration engulfed her as he looked down from his prideful height and said:

  “That is a man’s prize possession and finest weapon, and it has to be used if it’s brought out.”

  Then in a domineering tone of voice, he said:

  “Do you still want to tell me not to call you?”

  She was shocked into inaction and snapped her head up.

  He was standing with his back to the house to avoid being seen. Now she looked up and saw nothing but a broad tangle of weeds behind him.

  The grass looked even taller from where she knelt, and seemed to spread in all directions, claiming the whole yard. She saw that grass nearby had sprouted long stalks topped with green seeds. With no lamps to light up the area, shadows flitted through the darkness; the profusion of seedlings and green weeds had the power to crush everything in their path, which made the yard seem particularly dreary.

  I didn’t say good-bye when he finally left. Instead, I closed the door and went inside. But then I was seized by an urge to see him one last time. Overpowered by the desire, I ran up the stairs and stumbled into a second-story room facing the alley.

  Perhaps I could still see him beyond the fence, where he could be getting ready to leave or hailing a taxi. I must have one more glance at him, no matter what, for I might never see him again; I couldn’t let a man like him disappear from my life; I needed to see him one more time.

  He hadn’t gone beyond the fence, or maybe the fence blocked his outline. I stood on tiptoes, but couldn’t see over the fence. I might never see him again.

  At the age of six, Zhu Yinghong had stood on the purple sandalwood armchair in Lotus Pavilion and looked out the second-story window. The night was clotted dark. Round shafts of light held by invisible hands shone all over the garden, but the inky black held on. There were people, obviously many of them, all strangers, who melted into the darkness and turned into looming shadows.

  One summer night when she was eighteen, just before she left for college in Japan, she went to Lotus Pavilion alone and turned on all the lights her father had recently fitted. She looked down through the window.

  It was not the first time she’d stood at the window facing the pond that was overgrown with water lilies and lotus flowers, but she never could see the low fence and entrance arch to the east
. And even if she could have seen it, it would have been too tall for her to see the vehicles parked beyond, even from her second-floor vantage point.

  He might already have left. It is late, but there are plenty of taxis in the lane. Within seconds, one could have stopped and taken him away. Or he might be walking alongside the fence to hail a cab at the intersection, but the height of the fence blocks my view so I can’t see him even from the second floor.

  On the wooden elephant slide, Zhu Yinghong saw the teacher at Number Three Elementary School walking in front, followed by two rifle-toting soldiers. When they drew near, from the top of the slide she could see that the teacher’s hands were tied behind his back by a thick Boy Scout rope, wound several times around his wrist, each end held by one of the soldiers. They walked toward the side door, where a Jeep was parked; all three climbed in and the Jeep drove off, leaving a small dust storm in its wake.

  Worry was etched deeply on the teacher’s face. A fairly stout man still in his thirties, he wore such a serious look that his face seemed masked in apprehension.

  He left with firm resolve, perhaps because he was angry and frustrated that he could not finish what he was doing. Would that instill in him a sense of attachment that would bring him back to me? Maybe he’ll ring the bell in a few minutes or call out to let me know he is standing outside but blocked by the tall fence.

  I listened carefully to the deathly late-night silence. My head felt heavy from lack of sleep and the shedding of tears. My ears felt stuffed with loud, uncontrollable ringing.

  Flanked by the two soldiers, Father walked past Lotus Pavilion. Thick Boy Scout cotton rope was wound round his fair wrists, each end held by one of the soldiers.

  What appeared over and over was always Father’s worry-laden face, a display of solemnity mingled with profound pity and compassion.

  When I was finally aware that tears were blocking my view, everything was a blur. When had I started crying? Maybe at the very moment I missed my chance to see him one last time. I shut my eyes so the tears could flow down my face. Darkness reigned in the yard.

  Could it be that the streetlight was too dim for me to see him, since the areas on both sides of the fence weren’t bright enough? Maybe he was just beyond the fence pacing the whole time? Or, he didn’t know I was still waiting, because the yard wasn’t lit and it was pitch black inside the house.

  I hurried to switch on the lights in the room and the yard.

  Back then only dim sixty-watt bulbs illuminated Lotus Garden, and they had been put far apart, giving the place a weak but soft illumination. It was impossible to see Father’s face clearly, let alone his worried look, even if I could have seen in the dark how he was taken away by the two soldiers, especially since I was standing high above him and the lighting was so muted.

  The only possible explanation was I was deceived by my own childhood memories. I had merged two images, Father’s arrest, which I had only heard about, and the teacher’s arrest, which I had witnessed. Then I transferred and transposed them until what I was left with was an ironclad memory of seeing Father’s arrest.

  “Ah—” Zhu Yinghong cried out despite herself.

  For many years her father’s arrest had repeatedly made an appearance in her nightmares. When she recalled the scene, the deep worry creases on his face, compounded by the fear that she’d never see him again, tormented her. If all this had originated from unreliable memory, then wasn’t it futile to have suffered over a decade-long premonition that she could not keep him around and would have to let him disappear before her eyes, not to mention the traumatic sorrow over all those years?

  She sighed. She looked down at the yard, which was ablaze with light. After the early summer rains, the weedy expanse was a tangled profusion of dark green. Even late at night, she thought she could hear the weeds struggle upward and outward, in all directions, rising stubbornly with indomitable vitality, groaning to find a way through the assault of other weeds. Spreading their leaves and stalks, they hogged as much space as possible, noisily trampling on each other. The crackling sound of vital life rose like a snake spitting its forked tongue, as if attempting to witness its own endless upward growth.

  A sense of relief and relaxation overtook her as she felt the shedding of a heavy load, but quickly a different kind of fear grabbed hold of her.

  Is Lin Xigeng gone or is he still waiting beyond the fence?

  When they were seeing each other often, she naturally paid a lot of attention to what she wore, hoping to leave him with a different impression each time with new clothes.

  She missed and wished to recall what she was wearing when they first met, but never could. She was, however, able to recall what she was wearing the time he asked her out for a walk and they crowded into the small neighborhood watch booth.

  Rain is a common feature of Taipei spring evenings. Now in late spring, an occasional rain produced a slight chill that slowly warmed up. Her new thin silk dress was like gossamer, the fabric cold to the touch, as if washed by water, when it first touched her skin.

  But in that small booth, with its rain-soaked, stifling air, the dress was soft and warm because they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. When he reached out and took her in his arms, she leaned against his shoulder. The large warm hand on her back seemed to go straight through the thin silk fabric, as if the light dress had dissolved under their body heat.

  It was a white dress in silk that gave off a delicate luster, but looked like flickering light on a cold day.

  ONE

  Lotus Garden underwent a major renovation when she was about to graduate from elementary school, two years after she’d written “I was born in the last year of the Sino-Japanese War.”

  By then Father had pretty much recovered his health. A hundred-year-old plane tree by the garden, with too many crisscrossing limbs overladen with branches and leaves, crushed the fish-scale tiles on a corner of Lotus Pavilion’s eaves. After most of the branches were trimmed, a plan for a major renovation emerged.

  The branches were trimmed in the middle of winter. Given central Taiwan’s typical, subtropical weather, the plane tree was not deciduous, though its leaves were visibly sparser than in midsummer. Taiwan’s plane tree leaves are smaller than the palm-sized leaves on French counterparts; they curl up on the edges in the cold of winter, reducing their size and altering their shape.

  “The common name for the Taiwan plane tree is citong. Our ancestors planted them originally because on the Mainland the plane trees shed their leave; they needed sunlight on cold winter days and the plane trees did not block out the sun after the leaves had fallen. The leaves grow back in the summer to provide shade from the heat.”

  Father explained all this to her as he held her tiny hand in his. They were watching Luohan, whose former profession had been turning roosters into capons, as he directed workers in trimming branches.

  “But the Taiwanese coral trees don’t lose their leaves. So it would be pointless and ineffective to merely copy the Mainland practice of planting a tree by a building, wouldn’t it?”

  She nodded quietly.

  “So should we take it down and replace it with an indigenous Taiwanese tree?” Father sounded vague and uncertain. “But it’s more than a hundred years old and was planted by our ancestors. It’s as old as Lotus Garden. I simply can’t bring myself to do it.”

  Twenty years later, it was springtime when Zhu Yinghong decided to renovate Lotus Garden. The plane tree that had escaped the ax remained strong, even displaying a blanket of tiny red flowers. She had finally learned that it had a lovely name, Indian coral tree, or coral citong, which was why her father had called it citong. During the several years of renovation, she followed her father’s habit of calling it that.

  Unlike the citong, which underwent only a trimming, the pine and beech trees by Authenticity Studio were uprooted one by one.

  Ignoring objections from the elders in the clan, Father went ahead with his plan. He disagreed with their practice of i
mitating Mainland garden architecture, including planting similar trees; the saplings they had taken so much trouble to find on the Mainland would not necessarily thrive in Taiwan.

  “Why plant trees that won’t do well in the local climate? It’s better to grow indigenous trees and flowers,” Father continued in Taiwanese. “Your children may be born in the year of the dog or the pig, but they’re still your own flesh and blood.”

  Pines from the frigid zones baked in the harsh sun of central Taiwan for nearly half the year and lost the resilience of evergreens in the snow, where deciduous trees wither till the spring. They manage only to put forth anemic needles on shapeless branches. The pines were dug up and replaced by star fruit trees.

  The star fruit trees came in mature forms, though many leafy branches were trimmed for the transplanting process. When spring arrived, tender, green, delicate leaves sprouted with impressive vitality. With the autumn wind came blankets of red flowers, so tiny they weren’t particularly attractive by themselves, but the concentration of many shades of red presented an eye-catching yet sorrowful beauty, especially when blown off to the ground by strong winds. The ground was covered with small flowers, like blood-red tears.

  With the arrival of winter, the flowers disappeared, as if they’d shed their last drops of blood, and were replaced by small star fruit hanging on the trees like tiny green stars. Yinghong had asked Mudan to pick some for her to play with, but each time was met with a stern refusal. Mudan said that they would grow to be delicious fruit and what she wanted was wasteful. But soon afterward, the starlike fruit began to fall, until not a single one was left. This time Mudan explained that the newly transplanted trees needed time to recover from the uprooting and branch trimming before they could properly nourish the fruit.

  By the time she got around to renovating Lotus Garden, the star fruit trees near Authenticity Studio had all died. She wasn’t sure what to do now, plant pines like her ancestors or grow star fruit trees like her father. Pines would be the obvious choice if she wanted to return the garden to its original design, but Father’s plan seemed more practical and feasible. In the end, she opted for the latter, as the out-of-climate pines were frail and emaciated, in contrast to the star fruit trees, with their splendid and sorrowfully pretty red flowers, that left an indelible image in her mind.