at Jiro.
But I knew that Toru had meant with corpses.
I pictured the harbor filled with blood and floating bodies, the boats knocking against what was someone’s father, someone’s daughter.
All of a sudden, I realized Toru was staring at me. I stared back at him. What had he said? Had he said something about my expulsion in front of the whole family?
“I—I haven’t done . . . ,” I stammered.
“He’s pale as rice paste!” Toru said.
“Ah,” my mother said, waving her hand dismissively. “I keep telling him to get up and move around. All he does is lie on his futon—”
But Toru had risen and come to my side. He kneeled, putting his hands on either side of my head, and finally I realized he was not talking about my expulsion at all. He pulled down my lower eyelids with his thumbs and tilted my head back to look into my mouth. Though I had been avoiding him all day, I felt, at his sure touch, an immense relief, and it was with gratitude that I watched him swiftly turn my hands over to inspect my fingernails.
“My God! It’s a wonder you’re sitting upright at all,” he said. “You’re terribly anemic!”
O NCE AGAIN I lay on the examining table of Toru’s clinic. His window was now covered with iron bars, and his front door had been reinforced with a chain and a large dead bolt. My arm lay in a modified version of the immobilizing splint he had used to infuse the antivenom into me four years ago.
He moved about the room, setting a bottle of rubbing alcohol on the counter and unwrapping a needle and a syringe. He opened a steel cabinet and pulled out a large bottle of yellow fluid.
“But where did all my blood go?”
He shut the cabinet and twisted the needle onto the syringe, pulling yellow fluid into it from the bottle. “You’re malnourished,” he said. “You’ll need daily treatments.”
As Toru pierced my skin with the needle, I winced. “I thought it was from being sad,” I said.
Toru pulled back on the syringe, and my blood swirled up into the fluid. He pushed it back into me. He moved quickly, preoccupied; a baby wailed in the full waiting room next door. He glanced at me, pushing the fluid into my vein. “You have reason to be sad,” he said. “Many roads are closed to you now.”
I turned my head away from him. I had hoped that he might offer words of comfort or encouragement.
“One thing you need to keep in mind,” Toru said, pressing on my arm as he pulled out the needle. “The people who govern us now value only power. If you want to survive, you need to keep your mouth shut. You will have a more limited life, now that you have been expelled, but at least you are alive. Be grateful, lie low, and keep yourself out of trouble.”
B E GRATEFUL, LIE LOW. In the time to follow, I would be grateful for many things. The Mainlander whose mob-induced injuries Toru had treated on February 27 turned out to be the son of Chien Kuo’s middle school principal. The son’s gratitude to Toru was so great that when he returned to the clinic for continuing treatment, he brought gifts, and Toru seized the opportunity to plead my case.
His father agreed that expulsion should really have been his decision as principal, and it was conceivable that Teacher Lee had been unduly influenced by the events of February 28. My punishment was reduced to two black marks, and I was allowed to resume studies at my middle school. This was a great relief to my family, but Teacher Lee was deeply angered and struck me down at every turn. The remainder of my time at Chien Kuo middle school was nothing but misery, and though I won admittance into Chien Kuo’s prestigious high school, out of spite I refused to go.
I ENROLLED WITH some elementary school classmates at Provincial Taipei Institute of Technology. This was a junior college, which my classmates convinced me would save me from three miserable years of high school and an additional round of entrance exams. And in fact my life did improve. The
But I knew that Toru had meant with corpses.
I pictured the harbor filled with blood and floating bodies, the boats knocking against what was someone’s father, someone’s daughter.
All of a sudden, I realized Toru was staring at me. I stared back at him. What had he said? Had he said something about my expulsion in front of the whole family?
“I—I haven’t done . . . ,” I stammered.
“He’s pale as rice paste!” Toru said.
“Ah,” my mother said, waving her hand dismissively. “I keep telling him to get up and move around. All he does is lie on his futon—”
But Toru had risen and come to my side. He kneeled, putting his hands on either side of my head, and finally I realized he was not talking about my expulsion at all. He pulled down my lower eyelids with his thumbs and tilted my head back to look into my mouth. Though I had been avoiding him all day, I felt, at his sure touch, an immense relief, and it was with gratitude that I watched him swiftly turn my hands over to inspect my fingernails.
“My God! It’s a wonder you’re sitting upright at all,” he said. “You’re terribly anemic!”
O NCE AGAIN I lay on the examining table of Toru’s clinic. His window was now covered with iron bars, and his front door had been reinforced with a chain and a large dead bolt. My arm lay in a modified version of the immobilizing splint he had used to infuse the antivenom into me four years ago.
He moved about the room, setting a bottle of rubbing alcohol on the counter and unwrapping a needle and a syringe. He opened a steel cabinet and pulled out a large bottle of yellow fluid.
“But where did all my blood go?”
He shut the cabinet and twisted the needle onto the syringe, pulling yellow fluid into it from the bottle. “You’re malnourished,” he said. “You’ll need daily treatments.”
As Toru pierced my skin with the needle, I winced. “I thought it was from being sad,” I said.
Toru pulled back on the syringe, and my blood swirled up into the fluid. He pushed it back into me. He moved quickly, preoccupied; a baby wailed in the full waiting room next door. He glanced at me, pushing the fluid into my vein. “You have reason to be sad,” he said. “Many roads are closed to you now.”
I turned my head away from him. I had hoped that he might offer words of comfort or encouragement.
“One thing you need to keep in mind,” Toru said, pressing on my arm as he pulled out the needle. “The people who govern us now value only power. If you want to survive, you need to keep your mouth shut. You will have a more limited life, now that you have been expelled, but at least you are alive. Be grateful, lie low, and keep yourself out of trouble.”
B E GRATEFUL, LIE LOW. In the time to follow, I would be grateful for many things. The Mainlander whose mob-induced injuries Toru had treated on February 27 turned out to be the son of Chien Kuo’s middle school principal. The son’s gratitude to Toru was so great that when he returned to the clinic for continuing treatment, he brought gifts, and Toru seized the opportunity to plead my case.
His father agreed that expulsion should really have been his decision as principal, and it was conceivable that Teacher Lee had been unduly influenced by the events of February 28. My punishment was reduced to two black marks, and I was allowed to resume studies at my middle school. This was a great relief to my family, but Teacher Lee was deeply angered and struck me down at every turn. The remainder of my time at Chien Kuo middle school was nothing but misery, and though I won admittance into Chien Kuo’s prestigious high school, out of spite I refused to go.
I ENROLLED WITH some elementary school classmates at Provincial Taipei Institute of Technology. This was a junior college, which my classmates convinced me would save me from three miserable years of high school and an additional round of entrance exams. And in fact my life did improve. The
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