on winding cobblestone streets. To eat here, I will get a sense of anonymity.
Gordon studies the menu and orders the best: Eight-Treasure Pork, Sizzling Shrimp, Stinking Tofu, and Chicken and Duck Blood Soup. The last dish is a local favorite. Now a restaurant classic, it used to be prepared on the street by cutting the bird's neck in front of the customer, letting out the blood into a bowl of salt water to dilute, and pouring the congealed blood chunks into the broth. Freshly chopped scallion is then sprinkled onto the soup. Color, fragrance, and taste: the three essential ingredients for fine Chinese cuisine.
Gordon pours green tea for me, a real gentleman to a lady. I sip, wet my mouth, ready to recall Father.
Across our square, butcher-block table, I hand the two photos of Father one at a time. Gordon takes off his glasses and examines them with squinting eyes.
"This one was taken in front of the hospital two months before his death," I explain. "It is the last photo I have of him."
"I can't believe what time did to him," Gordon murmurs, shaking his head.
"He was in prison for five years."
"Was he? Why?"
"Because he had studied at Columbia. They said he was a spy for the U.S. imperialists," I say in a subdued voice.
Gordon's hand touches the photo with the Mao statue in the background and sighs. "So all the horror stories we read about in the West actually happened to Tao." He cups my hand in his and squeezes it. "I'm so sorry, Sha-fei."
First comes the Eight-Treasure Pork. With knotted brows, Gordon stares at the glossy pork set on a bed of gleaming sweet rice and preserved fruits. "Somehow it's not as appetizing now when I think of Tao," he says.
"I don't think Father had even thought about a dish like this before he died. At that time, pork was rationed, four ounces per person per month."
"You mean in prison?"
"No, at home. I believe Father never had meat in prison at all."
Gordon puts down his chopsticks. "Tell me what happened to him in prison, Sha-fei."
I had rehearsed what I’d say to Gordon before I came here, but now I don't know how to begin. So many scenes from the past flash back at once. My eyes become moist.
"I was with Father the day he was arrested. Mother was at the plant working. Three men came. They shoved a towel into Father’s mouth, tied him up, and denounced him as a spy for the U.S.. As he was taken away in an army jeep, I saw his protesting eyes from the jeep window. He couldn't talk."
I pause, wiping off a single tear pushing out a corner of my eye. Again, Gordon cups my free hand.
"I remember once Mother took me along to deliver a package to Father -- regulations forbade prisoners to have any contact with the outside world. Before sending it through a window to its unknown destination, two guards inspected our package while we waited. It contained a cake of soap, a tube of toothpaste, and a handful of roasted sunflower seeds, all saved from our own ration. There were also five razor blades for shaving. When a guard shook the cloth that wrapped the package, a tiny picture of Mother and me fell out. Furious, the guard tore it into shreds and warned, 'If you try to fool us again, we'll deliver nothing else but the razor blades so he can cut his wrists with them.' I was so scared I didn't even dare to cry. On our way home, Mother said to me that she wished she had a different husband and I had a different father."
I'm on the verge of sobbing. My fingertips touch the toilet tissue from Gordon's hotel in my pocket. Instead, I use my napkin to wipe my eyes.
"Brutal, brutal," repeats Gordon, his face looking grim.
For a split second he reminds me of Father, even though they bear little resemblance. "I wish Father were here with us now."
"So do I. Do you know how he was treated in prison?" he asks.
I shake my head. "Not all the details. But I know they beat him with bamboo poles and leather belts to make him admit that he was a spy. To save his life, he agreed. And he was ashamed
Gordon studies the menu and orders the best: Eight-Treasure Pork, Sizzling Shrimp, Stinking Tofu, and Chicken and Duck Blood Soup. The last dish is a local favorite. Now a restaurant classic, it used to be prepared on the street by cutting the bird's neck in front of the customer, letting out the blood into a bowl of salt water to dilute, and pouring the congealed blood chunks into the broth. Freshly chopped scallion is then sprinkled onto the soup. Color, fragrance, and taste: the three essential ingredients for fine Chinese cuisine.
Gordon pours green tea for me, a real gentleman to a lady. I sip, wet my mouth, ready to recall Father.
Across our square, butcher-block table, I hand the two photos of Father one at a time. Gordon takes off his glasses and examines them with squinting eyes.
"This one was taken in front of the hospital two months before his death," I explain. "It is the last photo I have of him."
"I can't believe what time did to him," Gordon murmurs, shaking his head.
"He was in prison for five years."
"Was he? Why?"
"Because he had studied at Columbia. They said he was a spy for the U.S. imperialists," I say in a subdued voice.
Gordon's hand touches the photo with the Mao statue in the background and sighs. "So all the horror stories we read about in the West actually happened to Tao." He cups my hand in his and squeezes it. "I'm so sorry, Sha-fei."
First comes the Eight-Treasure Pork. With knotted brows, Gordon stares at the glossy pork set on a bed of gleaming sweet rice and preserved fruits. "Somehow it's not as appetizing now when I think of Tao," he says.
"I don't think Father had even thought about a dish like this before he died. At that time, pork was rationed, four ounces per person per month."
"You mean in prison?"
"No, at home. I believe Father never had meat in prison at all."
Gordon puts down his chopsticks. "Tell me what happened to him in prison, Sha-fei."
I had rehearsed what I’d say to Gordon before I came here, but now I don't know how to begin. So many scenes from the past flash back at once. My eyes become moist.
"I was with Father the day he was arrested. Mother was at the plant working. Three men came. They shoved a towel into Father’s mouth, tied him up, and denounced him as a spy for the U.S.. As he was taken away in an army jeep, I saw his protesting eyes from the jeep window. He couldn't talk."
I pause, wiping off a single tear pushing out a corner of my eye. Again, Gordon cups my free hand.
"I remember once Mother took me along to deliver a package to Father -- regulations forbade prisoners to have any contact with the outside world. Before sending it through a window to its unknown destination, two guards inspected our package while we waited. It contained a cake of soap, a tube of toothpaste, and a handful of roasted sunflower seeds, all saved from our own ration. There were also five razor blades for shaving. When a guard shook the cloth that wrapped the package, a tiny picture of Mother and me fell out. Furious, the guard tore it into shreds and warned, 'If you try to fool us again, we'll deliver nothing else but the razor blades so he can cut his wrists with them.' I was so scared I didn't even dare to cry. On our way home, Mother said to me that she wished she had a different husband and I had a different father."
I'm on the verge of sobbing. My fingertips touch the toilet tissue from Gordon's hotel in my pocket. Instead, I use my napkin to wipe my eyes.
"Brutal, brutal," repeats Gordon, his face looking grim.
For a split second he reminds me of Father, even though they bear little resemblance. "I wish Father were here with us now."
"So do I. Do you know how he was treated in prison?" he asks.
I shake my head. "Not all the details. But I know they beat him with bamboo poles and leather belts to make him admit that he was a spy. To save his life, he agreed. And he was ashamed
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