small restaurant run by the coffee shop owner’s crew.
Beating a heavy rhythm on the roof above us, the rain fell ceaselessly; the downpour was so severe that someone without a hat or umbrella was in real danger of drowning. The monsoon rains lasted weeks at a time, so everyone and everything was wet, cold, and damp.
Next to Ah Fang’s seat burned the agreeable fire of the restaurant’s coal-fired stove. Jon and I sat on footstools facing him, our backs to the stove absorbing the delicious heat, made almost cozy with the storm outside. We drank coffee, syrupy with sugar, paying our rent for the seats by the purchase.
Ah Fang held an old cloth-bound book reverently, engrossed in a train of thought far distant in place and time. The three of us sat silent for some minutes, until Jon asked: “What ya got there, mate?”
Ah Fang was slow to leave his memories. When he met Jon’s gaze, he handed him his book gently, as one would a precious relic. It was opened to a photograph.
In the dim light it was difficult to make out the image, and in any case, neither Jon nor I could have read more than a few characters of the tightly packed columns of Chinese ideograms that surrounded it.
Jon handed me the book, as it had apparently evoked no response in him. Scrutinizing it, I recognized Mao Tse Tung at the center of a group. All were dressed in peasant garb, and their faces were young and unlined; the days of the Long March were still to come, or had just passed.
I mentioned Mao’s name, and Ah Fang excitedly came to life, nodding and pointing to a figure in the row directly behind Mao.
The man was his grandfather.
Fang rummaged for a moment in his box and took out a pile of photos carefully wrapped in a tattered yellow silk scarf. He passed them to us reluctantly, making certain we understood the meaning of each icon. Posing confidently in a park with a manmade lake in the background, stood a much older version, nonetheless recognizable, of the man next to Mao.
Another man, not as old as his grandfather, dressed in an officer’s great-coat, was in several photos—his father. Lastly, with great hesitance, he gave us appalling photos. A healthy, youthful Fang stared at the camera from a half-dozen locations. He wore an officer’s uniform in some military settings, and a couple in civilian clothes at tourist spots. They were a stark contrast with the Fang before us—a shrunken revenant of his former self.
In fits and starts building to an unstoppable torrent, Fang poured out his story, relief plain on his face. He may have been an alien to confession, but it was clear he felt a deep catharsis by sharing the burden of his memories.
With a strange mixture of pride and disgust, he described his grandfather as “Mao’s dog,” a man who had devoted his life to being a part of the security apparatus protecting Mao and harassing “enemies of the state.”
The old man had inculcated discipline in him, and he had given Fang a priceless education in martial arts and traditional Chinese medicine, including its immense store of herbal pharmacology and acupuncture. A living testimonial to the efficacy of Chinese cures, his grandfather still lived a healthy and active life, though he had long passed the age of ninety.
Fang’s father was a senior official in the Chinese Secret Police, his position unassailable thanks to the old man’s party ties. Fang, too, had been a beneficiary of that influence, given an officer’s commission in the army, and made a captain at an early age.
His future in those long-ago days was assured, with no obstacles or hardships hindering his rise to the top. As commanding officer of five platoons, he was expected to do a stint on China’s borders to further his career, and earn the promotion that beckoned to him.
As is so often the case, fate had different plans.
He was assigned duty on the lawless, troublesome Burmese border with Southern China, the heart of the “Golden Triangle.” Chinese
Beating a heavy rhythm on the roof above us, the rain fell ceaselessly; the downpour was so severe that someone without a hat or umbrella was in real danger of drowning. The monsoon rains lasted weeks at a time, so everyone and everything was wet, cold, and damp.
Next to Ah Fang’s seat burned the agreeable fire of the restaurant’s coal-fired stove. Jon and I sat on footstools facing him, our backs to the stove absorbing the delicious heat, made almost cozy with the storm outside. We drank coffee, syrupy with sugar, paying our rent for the seats by the purchase.
Ah Fang held an old cloth-bound book reverently, engrossed in a train of thought far distant in place and time. The three of us sat silent for some minutes, until Jon asked: “What ya got there, mate?”
Ah Fang was slow to leave his memories. When he met Jon’s gaze, he handed him his book gently, as one would a precious relic. It was opened to a photograph.
In the dim light it was difficult to make out the image, and in any case, neither Jon nor I could have read more than a few characters of the tightly packed columns of Chinese ideograms that surrounded it.
Jon handed me the book, as it had apparently evoked no response in him. Scrutinizing it, I recognized Mao Tse Tung at the center of a group. All were dressed in peasant garb, and their faces were young and unlined; the days of the Long March were still to come, or had just passed.
I mentioned Mao’s name, and Ah Fang excitedly came to life, nodding and pointing to a figure in the row directly behind Mao.
The man was his grandfather.
Fang rummaged for a moment in his box and took out a pile of photos carefully wrapped in a tattered yellow silk scarf. He passed them to us reluctantly, making certain we understood the meaning of each icon. Posing confidently in a park with a manmade lake in the background, stood a much older version, nonetheless recognizable, of the man next to Mao.
Another man, not as old as his grandfather, dressed in an officer’s great-coat, was in several photos—his father. Lastly, with great hesitance, he gave us appalling photos. A healthy, youthful Fang stared at the camera from a half-dozen locations. He wore an officer’s uniform in some military settings, and a couple in civilian clothes at tourist spots. They were a stark contrast with the Fang before us—a shrunken revenant of his former self.
In fits and starts building to an unstoppable torrent, Fang poured out his story, relief plain on his face. He may have been an alien to confession, but it was clear he felt a deep catharsis by sharing the burden of his memories.
With a strange mixture of pride and disgust, he described his grandfather as “Mao’s dog,” a man who had devoted his life to being a part of the security apparatus protecting Mao and harassing “enemies of the state.”
The old man had inculcated discipline in him, and he had given Fang a priceless education in martial arts and traditional Chinese medicine, including its immense store of herbal pharmacology and acupuncture. A living testimonial to the efficacy of Chinese cures, his grandfather still lived a healthy and active life, though he had long passed the age of ninety.
Fang’s father was a senior official in the Chinese Secret Police, his position unassailable thanks to the old man’s party ties. Fang, too, had been a beneficiary of that influence, given an officer’s commission in the army, and made a captain at an early age.
His future in those long-ago days was assured, with no obstacles or hardships hindering his rise to the top. As commanding officer of five platoons, he was expected to do a stint on China’s borders to further his career, and earn the promotion that beckoned to him.
As is so often the case, fate had different plans.
He was assigned duty on the lawless, troublesome Burmese border with Southern China, the heart of the “Golden Triangle.” Chinese