A Single Swallow Page 14

  The small gravestone next to Snot belongs to Ghost. It’s engraved The grave of the loyal dog Ghost. Died September 5, 1944. I don’t know when Ghost was born, but he was probably about four when he died. His grave only contains a cookie tin with a fistful of his fur in it. In a bit, let’s look for those stones, see if they’re still there.

  The early days in Yuehu were very lonely, especially that first winter. When I returned to the US, I told friends how cold it was in Yuehu in the winter. They would look at the map where I’d shown them and say, “It’s subtropical. How come you describe it like it’s Siberia?” It’s impossible to explain the complex interaction between temperature and humidity in a Jiangnan winter, but you remember. The heavy dampness in Yuehu makes winter feel like a suit of ice permanently stuck to your skin. The stove becomes a stupid toy that only warms a small part of your body. Because of the fuel shortage, the generators were only for communications between our camp and Chongqing, not even enough power to supply us with light. Other than on festival nights, we relied on kerosene lamps, so just like the locals, we went to bed before nine. Before bed every night, Buffalo lit the coal stove, and whether intentionally or not, it was always placed near my bed. But the fire went out in the middle of the night, so in the long hours before dawn, I was often awakened by the cold. My night didn’t depend on blowing taps to start, because the exhausting work meant I was asleep as soon as I lay down. Night for me began when the stove went out.

  I know complaining about the cold in front of Liu Zhaohu is heartless. War had been raging in your country for many years. Everything was scarce. There were no servants in the Chinese students’ dorms and no coal stoves. There was only the stove in the big classroom, and that was reserved for the American instructors. Only the students in the front row could feel a little of its warmth. But I never heard a complaint from any of the Chinese students, not even 520, always in the back row blowing his nose. Forgive me, Liu Zhaohu. We were a bunch of Americans, used to a comfortable life. We were still learning how to endure hardship.

  When you can’t sleep, your mind flies through countless things you thought you’d forgotten, things that have nothing to do with the present. For example, I suddenly remembered a kitten named Beggar I’d had as a child. One day he disappeared, and my brother and I cried all night. When I got up the next morning, I found him in one of my father’s dress shoes, sound asleep. I remembered skipping school when I was twelve and wandering the streets when I happened to look into a window and saw my father having coffee with a strange woman. She glanced at me through the window, and I ran away. When I went home, I was frightened, even though I knew he should be afraid, not me. For the rest of the year, I wondered if my father and mother would divorce and which of them I would live with. But after a few months passed and nothing happened, I stopped worrying. Another time I thought of the Robert Frost poem I’d hung on my wall in Chicago: “The Road Not Taken.” It was copied in my own handwriting, and there was a singe on the bottom left corner of the paper from a cigarette butt. I’d wanted to be a poet at the time, and thought that poets were poor and smoked avidly. I learned to smoke, but in the end, I feared poverty, so I gave it up. These memories were like ghosts trapped in a cave during the day. Only when I couldn’t sleep was the cave thrown open, and the ghosts burst out, as if released from Pandora’s box, waiting for me to acknowledge each one. I lay on my bed, listening to my comrades snoring around me, sometimes afraid that I’d be gradually killed by cold nights like this before the Japanese took my head.

  What comforted me then wasn’t Pastor Billy or Liu Zhaohu. You were part of the scenery of my daytime world, but at night you disappeared into your own worlds, enduring the torture of your own loneliness. My only comfort at night was Ghost. When I couldn’t bear the cold and loneliness, I would reach out from under the covers, because I knew Ghost was sleeping beside my bed. He would lick the back of my hand over and over and touch my arm with his thick, meaty paws, as if to say, OK, I know. I understand. Ghost’s father was a collie and his mother a greyhound, and he had his father’s wits and his mother’s legs, combining wisdom and speed. His fur was light gray, making him hard to see as he roamed the countryside. In the military kennel in Chongqing, he’d trained as an outstanding scout dog, capable of leading us on marches. He caught movements that were undetectable to the human ear, seeing traps and trip wires that human eyes couldn’t, or finding weapons hidden under branches. When he spotted something, he didn’t make a sound, but alerted us to the danger by making his ears stand up.

  But because our missions were secret, and dogs like Ghost were too foreign, we hadn’t really been able to use him yet. His special skills were gradually deteriorating, and he had become more of a pet to this troop of American boys. When I thought of the effort the trainer had invested in him, I felt a pang of regret. He was an eagle, meant to soar in the open sky, but we’d turned him into a sparrow hopping on and off branches. Still, compared to the joy he brought us, the regret was negligible. Even as a pet, Ghost was unusual. I’d taught him a few tricks that delighted us. For instance, when someone said “Heil Hitler,” he’d raise his right foot in a clown-like salute. When someone said “Yamamoto 56,” the officer who oversaw the attack on Pearl Harbor, he’d stomp his left foot in a gesture of contempt and anger. When I returned to the dorm after class, he always greeted me eagerly. If I said, “You’re so dirty,” he’d stop, look guilty, and lick his paw earnestly before handing it to me for inspection. When we played basketball, I only had to ask him, “Who’s the best?” and he’d run over and pull the corner of my shirt, whimpering with joy. Before leaving Chongqing, the dog trainer repeatedly told me I couldn’t treat a military dog like a pet or he’d become hesitant when performing tasks. But I couldn’t help it.

  It was in Yuehu that Ghost found the love of his life. We had just been assigned to Yuehu and had to go to the commissariat dozens of miles away once a week to get the mail and post our letters. To a person walking a mountain road, distance on a map is meaningless. Locals determined distance by the time it took to walk from one place to another. From Yuehu, it was a half-day walk to the commissariat, but it was a cushy job because it was the only way to leave camp legally according to military regulations. On top of that, the mountain road passed through a small town. The commander repeatedly emphasized that we were not to linger in town, but anyone who went to collect the mail always returned with a few items that could only be found in the town. It was an open secret that we all understood. Everyone wanted to be the messenger, so the commander decided we’d take turns in alphabetical order by last name. I had the good luck to be the first, because the fellow who was ahead of me had a carbuncle on his foot and couldn’t walk. I gave him some of the canned beef my mother had sent, and he agreed to swap with me, even though I wasn’t the first to ask.

  Pastor Billy suggested I go by water part of the way to reduce the strain on my legs. He had a sampan and offered to row it for me. He’d quickly become an unofficial advisor to our camp, and we sought his advice on all matters, big or small. According to Pastor Billy’s instructions, I changed into the kind of clothes local men wore: a long tunic over billowing cloth pants cinched with string at the ankles, a pipe tucked at the waist. Straw sandals and a bamboo hat completed my attire. We also carried a basket of beans, as prescribed in some detail by Pastor Billy. Of course, the beans were just used to hide short guns and grenades, items I hoped we’d never need to use. I sat in the yard waiting for Pastor Billy. Ghost seemed not to recognize me dressed like that. He walked around me warily several times, but didn’t come near. When I reached out and let him lick my hand, he smelled something familiar and finally settled down. He’d been sitting for only a moment when he grew agitated. He walked around the yard uneasily, then ran to the gate, stood on the stone steps, and stared intently into the distance. His eyes widened, revealing his pink eyelids, and his ears twitched back and forth. He looked like he’d spotted the enemy. My nerves tensed, and I wondered if our co
mrades at the commanding elevation point had missed any news. Almost without thinking, I pulled the pistol out of the basket and rushed out the door. Then I saw what had agitated Ghost. There was a furry white bundle on the dirt road nearby. It seemed to have no feet, appearing to roll along the ground. As it drew nearer, I saw that it was a white terrier.

  Ghost shot out like an arrow, but when he reached the white bundle, he stopped shyly. The terrier was tiny. Standing next to the eighty-eight-pound Ghost, she barely reached the top of his leg. Ghost was a proud dog. He knew he was special. When we went out, if we encountered a village dog, he wouldn’t even grace it with a glance. He walked right past, as if it were a wisp of wind, with no volume or weight. For their part, village dogs all automatically yielded, sometimes whimpering resentfully. But this white terrier wasn’t the least bit afraid of Ghost. She looked at Ghost with big, shimmering eyes, and Ghost melted like wax under her gaze.

  Ghost leaned over and sniffed the white terrier gingerly. Seeing that she didn’t object, he started to lick her. He flicked out half his tongue, licking gently, as if afraid to rip a piece of tissue paper. The white terrier seemed to know from the start that she had wrapped this giant dog around her finger. She sat motionless, like a noble queen, her eyes closed and head raised, allowing Ghost to lick the hard-to-reach spots on her neck. Ghost looked like he had received a reward, and a burst of joyous rumbling emerged from his throat. As I was watching, spellbound, Pastor Billy arrived. Pointing at the white terrier, I told him Ghost’s heart had been stolen in less than a second.

  Pastor Billy laughed and said, “By my Millie?”

  Surprised, I said, “This is your dog? No wonder she doesn’t look like the others.”

  Pastor Billy said, “Actually, she’s Stella’s. A Swedish missionary left her with me when he returned home, and I gave her to Stella.”

  Only then did I notice a young Chinese girl standing behind Pastor Billy. She wore a pale bluish-white cloth shirt and had combed her hair into two short braids. Her trousers were rolled up, revealing two thin, but solid, calves. I’d heard Pastor Billy had taken in a Chinese girl as his assistant for treating patients. She must be that girl.

  “I’ve asked Stella to row us,” Pastor Billy said.

  The girl nodded and said, in English, “Hello, sir.”

  There was nothing particularly unusual about her, but I vaguely felt that she was different. Later, I realized that it wasn’t how she dressed, but her eyes. She looked me directly in the eye. That alone was enough to distinguish her from the other rural women. It was one of the subtle American traces Pastor Billy left on her, a first step away from her birth and upbringing.

  I patted Ghost on the head and said goodbye. He wagged his tail half-heartedly. I knew that in his world, there was now only this little white terrier, Millie. There was no room for anything else. Ghost had even lost himself. After that day, Ghost and Millie couldn’t stay apart. If he didn’t go find her, she came looking for him. Sometimes they met on the path searching for each other, then stayed in some cave or beneath a tree, enjoying half a day of ecstasy. Ghost became just like any country dog of lowly origin, bewildered by love. I reprimanded him a few times, scolding him and reminding him of his origin and mission. He sat obediently, looking up at me, his eyes full of shame, as if to say, You’re absolutely right, but that’s the way it is. I can’t help myself. I didn’t know that this would have other consequences, but as it turned out, I unexpectedly saw a lot of the girl, since we were both always out looking for our dogs. We went from strangers to acquaintances, all because of those two animals’ unintentional lead.

  Later, whenever I thought of Ghost’s short life as a military dog, I was grateful he’d found true love before leaving this world.

  On that day, I picked up the basket of beans and walked toward the river with Pastor Billy. On the way, we came across a group of Chinese trainees running to the drill field to start their routine morning exercises. Their training followed the German tradition of the military academy as they formed a neat array of squares and repeated strict standing at attention, pause, and stabbing motions. Morning exercises were before breakfast and classes, so the students were hungry. They were all skinny, almost none of them filling their uniforms, but they were the healthiest of the men who’d come to register. Our medical officers had eliminated everyone underweight or with an infectious disease such as an abscess or scabies, but what weight index were they using? We’d lowered our already low standard twice. While we American instructors complained about how monotonous the food was, we often forgot that the Chinese students only had two meals a day. Miles had given strict orders that the Americans were limited to teaching special operations technology, and we shouldn’t interfere with the management of Chinese students. Even so, our commanding officer couldn’t help tactfully bringing up the issue of the Chinese students’ food shortage with the Chinese commanding officer.

  “The soldiers on the front lines don’t have enough to eat” was the response, and it was true.

  I saw you, Liu Zhaohu, Number 635, among the jogging students and called you over to ask you to tell the captain that today’s military armament class would be temporarily taught by another instructor, Smithson. You were the only one who knew a bit of English, so whenever the translator wasn’t there, I asked you to convey simple messages for me. When you saw the girl standing behind us, a slightly stunned expression came over your face. No, not “slightly.” It was quite—or no, very, or better yet, extremely shocked. Your lips started trembling. You wanted to speak, but didn’t know what to say. She didn’t wait for you to find your words, but walked quickly past you, almost at a jog. Dust flew up around her feet, and we could hear the scratch of her cloth shoes against the earth.

  “You know her?” I asked.

  You hadn’t recovered from the shock. First you shook your head, then nodded. I dismissed you. At the time, it didn’t seem important. As we walked on, I pointed to Stella, who was ahead of us, and whispered to Pastor Billy, “Is it safe? Bringing her, I mean.”

  “It’s OK. She knows the waterways,” he said. Then he added, “Besides, I have this.” He raised the hem of his tunic to reveal a Browning pistol at his waistband. It was difficult for me to reconcile the image of Billy with that of a pastor. I felt that he must have led an army in a previous life or his eyes wouldn’t have such a gleam when he talked about weapons.

  Like many riverside villages south of the Yangtze, Yuehu was the name of both a river and a village. Calling that part of the waterway a river isn’t quite right, though. It was at most the beginning of a river—or its end. The narrow river at Yuehu was a collection of small waterfalls on the mountain, but one had to paddle farther out to where the river widens to see more spectacular waterscapes. When we reached the edge of the river, we had to take off our shoes and push the sampan out several steps before we reached waters deep enough for us to launch. The stones at the river’s edge were pointed, and each step was like treading on a blunt knife. During our training in the outskirts of Washington, in an area designed to imitate China’s conditions, why hadn’t anyone considered that we’d need to go barefoot? I watched Pastor Billy and Stella. Their steps were steady and firm, since they were used to the ground under their feet. Embarrassed, I swallowed a few yelps of pain. Those few moments on the rocks felt like a year. The beached sampan was heavy, so Stella bent her body, muscles bulging on her arms against the stern, her breath almost sharp and heavy enough to bore a hole into the deck. A heavy cloud of silence floated in the air, like a can of pressurized gas, ready to explode at any moment. It seemed that this cloud had something to do with Liu Zhaohu.

  “Is he the one who gave you the book?” Pastor Billy finally asked.

  His tone was cautious. He didn’t want to set off the explosion. He was just trying to make a tiny pressure-release hole in that can of gas.

  “No. That person is dead.” Stella’s tone was calm, but I saw the blue-purple veins outlining the muscle in her a
rm.

  We spoke no more, but just bent our heads and pushed forward.

  We finally pushed the sampan out to where the boat would float. The waterway was still narrow, and there was almost no trace of a ripple on the surface. If not for the wake of the sampan and the occasional drifting duckweed and fallen leaves, the water looked like a patch of luscious green space. Stella rowed alone, while Pastor Billy and I ducked into the bamboo shelter. Though we were dressed as local men from head to toe, our height still made us stand out.

  After we were on the sampan for about half an hour, the river gradually widened. We started to see little wharfs where the boat could dock on both banks. Women washed clothes in the river, and the sound of their wooden clubs was wet and muffled. The sampan startled the waterbirds resting in the grass, and they flew up, squawking, wings obscuring almost half the sky. It was still early, and the sun hadn’t risen above the treetops, the branches cutting the light into long straight lines. Occasionally we passed islets in the middle of the river. The rocks weren’t visible, but clusters of dark weeds emerged from the water. A few times, I feared the sampan would hit the rocks, but Stella quietly gave the oar a light pull, and the bow would glide past the reef. Seeing my surprise, Pastor Billy laughed and said, “It’s a piece of cake for Stella. Just wait until we get to the wind tunnel. Then you’ll get to see her true skill.”

  We soon reached the wind tunnel, which was a sharp turn in the river. The wind came upon us almost without warning. I know it didn’t come from the sky, because the clouds were perfectly still. It seemed to come instead from the riverbed itself. Where it arose, the river immediately began to stir. The waves became a whirlpool, and the sampan began to sway violently at the edge of the whirlpool, bobbing up and down. The sound of waves splashing against the shelter was almost like sand and stones scattered by an explosion. One couldn’t help feeling frightened by the sound. Pastor Billy left the shelter and helped Stella row, holding the upper end of the long oar, while Stella held its center. Though one of Pastor Billy’s strides equaled two of Stella’s small steps, their feet always landed on the same point. It was like there was a soundless voice regulating their strength and rhythm. They worked together seamlessly.