Overnight, the “Down with American Imperialists” slogans were replaced with “Welcome American President Nixon.” Mannequins dressed in U.S. Army uniforms for military bayonet practice at schools nationwide were removed. Children were instructed to learn the English phrases “Welcome” and “How do you do?”
The day Nixon arrived in China, children filled the streets from the airport to the hotel where the president would stay. Each child was given paper flowers and instructed to smile with their teeth showing.
Carpenter Chan received an urgent dispatch that Nixon was to visit Chin-kiang, and that Pearl Buck was with him.
The town vibrated with anticipation.
I so wished that Papa could have lived to see this day. It would have thrilled him to greet the American president-but even more, the daughter of his beloved Absalom.
The guerrilla-church members counted the hours and then the minutes. In the morning, state police came to secure the town. Everyone was ordered to stay inside until called. While the men exchanged news and information, the women began to prepare Pearl’s favorite foods. Every family contributed. We soaked rice and soybeans, steamed bread and yams, and brought out all the pickled radishes and dried meats, which were usually saved for New Year’s. The sound of chopping vegetables lasted all day, and the smell of roasting garlic peanuts filled the air. “Pearl will smell our cooking miles away when she arrives,” Lilac said.
When I heard the sound of drums and the music of China’s national anthem, I knew the American guests were here. I rinsed my hands, combed my hair, and slipped on my blue Mao jacket. Rouge wanted to join me but her boss wouldn’t give her permission. As Dick’s daughter, she was ill-treated.
I was nervous and tense. My doubts had grown when my friend’s face had failed to appear in newspapers. There were photos of Mao and Nixon shaking hands. And Madame Mao, her big, wide mouth smiling like a white sailboat. But no Pearl. Was I foolish to believe that she would be allowed to come?
“Is Pearl with Nixon or isn’t she?” I kept asking Carpenter Chan.
“I don’t know” was Chan’s reply.
I had been more than living for this moment. To me, it was as if my life depended on it. Now I was afraid. I imagined what Madame Mao might have done to keep Pearl out of China. Dick’s fate reminded me not to underestimate her power.
Yet I couldn’t stop hoping. I rose before dawn to climb the rolling hills. When I reached the top of a favorite hill where Pearl and I used to play, I lay on the grass and closed my eyes. The scent of jasmine drifted from below and brought back memories. I could see my friend’s clear blue eyes. She looked at me without speaking.
My tears welled up at the thought that we would be like two strangers. She might not even recognize me. Maybe she had simply forgotten me. But no, another voice spoke inside my head. “You will always be able to recognize each other.” We would pick up where we had left off. I would satisfy her every curiosity about China.
“Tell me how you followed Dick and what happened,” my friend would say. She knew that Dick had been Mao’s right-hand man.
Or maybe Pearl would not ask. She was not the kind to presume. She would have heard about Mao’s persecutions and would have wondered about Dick’s fate. In comparison to Hsu Chih-mo, Dick was hot in temper and strong in character. Although he had tried to ride the tiger, he was too honest for Mao. He didn’t even know when he had off ended Mao. The people of Chin-kiang thought that Dick deserved his tragic ending because he had followed Mao. Papa and Carpenter Chan had never understood Dick. His rejection of Christianity made him suspect to both men. But Dick was against all religions. Like Mao, Dick claimed himself godless. But he had ended up doing exactly what he hated, worshipping Mao.
Pearl was the only one who understood both Dick and me, the same way she understood China. Perhaps this was why Nixon had picked her to accompany him.
Pearl would not have forgotten Hsu Chih-mo. I was sure of that. But I would tell her that Hsu Chih-mo was a lucky man. By that, I meant that he was better off dead. Hsu Chih-mo would have suffered horribly if he had lived to see the Cultural Revolution. He would have ended up worse than Dick.
We were falling asleep waiting inside when we heard Carpenter Chan’s voice.
“They are gone!” He came through the door, gasping.
“Who’s gone?”
“The Americans.”
“Was Nixon here?” Rouge asked.
Carpenter Chan nodded, trying to recover his breath.
“We saw the foreigners,” Double Luck David said, “but the authorities took them away as fast as they came.”
“Where is Pearl?” I asked.
Carpenter Chan shook his head. “I am afraid that she didn’t come.”
I tried not to let the disappointment get to me. I composed myself and asked again, “Do you mean Pearl didn’t come to China, or do you mean she didn’t come to Chin-kiang?”
“Take a look at this.” Carpenter Chan produced a paper from his pocket. “It has Madame Mao’s signature on it.”
Miss Pearl Buck:
Your application for a visa was duly received. In light of the fact that for a long time you have in your works taken an attitude of distortion, smear, and vilification toward the people of New China and its leaders, I am authorized to inform you that we cannot accept your request for a visit to China.
In the past, families chose different couplets to decorate their door frames for the Chinese New Year. The most popular couplets focused on luck, health, and fortune. But this year, every family in Chin-kiang wanted the lines I tacked to my door.
The right side read: Mountains stay erect forever.
The left side read: No worry for getting firewood.
The horizontal top read: As long as it takes.
It was the town’s silent protest. It expressed our feelings for our friend in exile.
The next morning an unexpected message came: The American guests had requested another tour of Pearl Buck’s hometown. Carpenter Chan was instructed to order the people to tear down all the couplets as soon as possible.
But people were slow to act. By the time the Americans appeared, the families were still on their ladders trying to take down the couplets.
I forgot rules, warnings, and the possibility of imprisonment as I moved toward the center of the town.
The crowd followed me.
We didn’t see Pearl. We saw a big-nosed foreign man surrounded by guards. He must be Nixon, we figured. Nixon was talking to people, perhaps asking what they were doing. People had stunned looks on their faces. With his big smile, Nixon asked the Chinese translator, a young woman, what the couplets said.
The translator looked frightened. She avoided explaining the meaning behind the couplets.
Nixon was confused and said that he had a lot to learn about Chinese culture.
Followed by the Chinese authorities, the police, and his American Secret Service agents, Nixon moved on.
We followed quietly at a distance. Rouge joined me. The crowd grew larger.
Nixon was led to his car. Before entering, he stopped as if he’d changed his mind. He turned to the translator and asked, “Do you by any chance know Pearl Buck?”
“No, I don’t,” the young woman replied quickly.
“Would you ask the crowd if anyone knew Pearl Buck?”
“I am sorry. I don’t think so.” The translator shook her head.
“Would you ask, for me?” Nixon pressed gently.
The translator grabbed the tail of her braided hair and sank her teeth into it. Her fear was obvious.
Nixon repeated the question.
The translator burst into tears. She stared into her notebook and forced out the words “It is beyond my duty.”
“Pearl Buck is a personal friend of mine,” Nixon said. “She grew up right here in Chin-kiang. She asked me to say hello to her friends. She wanted so much to come back…”
I could hear every word even from where I stood, a few yards away. My heart felt like it was bursting inside its chamber.
Receiving no response from the translator, Nixon turned to the crowd and asked, “Do any of you know Pearl Buck?”
A dead silence was the response.
The government’s shadow hung like a thick black cloud over our heads.
“I am sorry,” Nixon said, nodding. He stepped back and turned again toward his car.
“Wait a moment, Mr. President,” Rouge called out. “My mother does.”
“Your mother?” Nixon was delighted.
“Yes, my mother. She knew Pearl Buck, and she is right here.” Rouge pushed me toward Nixon.
Nixon stepped between the Chinese guards and stopped in front of me before anyone could react. The guards looked confused. It was obvious they didn’t know how to respond, how to stop him. Nixon’s Secret Service agents stayed close to their president, so the Chinese agents couldn’t get near him.
“So you know Pearl Buck?” Nixon asked.
“So does everyone here,” I said in English. “Not only did we know Pearl, but we knew her father, Absalom, and her mother, Carie… Pearl and I grew up together.” I stopped, trying desperately to press back my tears.
“How wonderful that you speak English!” Nixon’s face lit up. “What is your name?”
“My mother’s name is Willow Yee,” Rouge spoke.
“Richard Nixon.” The American president offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Willow Yee.”
The moment I touched his hand, my tears poured. The reality that I might never see Pearl again caught up with me.
“What is the meaning of the couplets?” Nixon asked. “And why are they being taken down?”
“Mountains stay erect forever means that our hearts continue to pray for Pearl’s return,” I answered. “No worry for getting firewood means that we don’t worry because opportunities will come our way again. As long as it takes means we have faith in God.”
“Good couplets!” Nixon nodded. “Now everything makes sense to me.”
“Mr. President, why isn’t Pearl with you?” voices in the crowd asked. “Why didn’t she come?”
“Well, folks,” Nixon said, smiling, “all I can tell you is that Pearl really wanted to come. Trust me, she did everything she could. Absolutely everything!”
“Please help make her visit happen, President Nixon,” I pleaded. “For Pearl and for all of us.”
“Please try, Mr. American President,” the crowd echoed.
“I will,” Nixon said, and we heard the sincerity in his voice.
Knowing exactly what might await me once Nixon was gone, I spoke my last words. “President Nixon, would you tell Pearl that her friend Willow misses her and the entire town of Chin-kiang misses her?”
“You have my word.” Nixon bit his lower lip and made the promise.
The moment Nixon and his guards moved on, the government agents arrested me.
“Madame Mao has authorized me to take charge of this case,” Vanguard said. “Your days are numbered!”
I was charged with four crimes. First, for insulting Madame Mao. Second, for exposing national secrets to Nixon. Third, for degrading China with couplets. Fourth, and the worst, for being a “planted agent” of Pearl Buck’s.
I did not feel defeated. Instead, I luxuriated in the memory of my encounter with Nixon. I imagined him returning home and meeting with Pearl. I imagined him describing his experience. Pearl would be pleased. She would say, “Willow. Of course I know her. She was my best friend.”
The prison was called Donkey’s Crotch by the inmates. The area was desolate and rocky and covered with snow year-round. The inmates were forced to do hard labor before their execution. Because of my age, I was given a job making straw mats for the other prisoners. The mats were used to wrap the dead. Since they didn’t have to make coffins, it saved wood. The mats were in short supply, so I was ordered to work long hours. I had to make ten a day or starve. It was impossible to complete the task, so I starved. The prison also limited the inmates’ water usage. Each inmate was allowed a half cup a day for drinking. There was no water for washing.
I had no idea how Nixon found out about my imprisonment. Pearl must have insisted that he check on me. She knew how cruel Madame Mao could be and must have sensed that I might be in trouble. Pearl must have convinced Nixon not to trust any information provided by the Chinese government regarding my safety. Nixon’s aides must have inquired about me. They must have eventually learned about my imprisonment from Rouge. Premier Chou En-lai must have gone to Mao with Nixon’s request regarding my release. He must have received Mao’s permission to let me go. If Madame Mao might have ignored Premier Chou En-lai’s request, she wouldn’t disobey Mao. What counted was that Mao needed Nixon to be on his side in order to keep Russia from starting a war with China.
After nine months in prison, I was free to go home.
Cameras followed her as she moved like a famous actress. In her sixties, Madame Mao shined like a superstar. She was in a crisply pressed green army uniform with two mini red flags on both of her lapels. The matching green cap held in all her hair. Standing between her husband and Nixon, she smiled broadly. Her head turned left and right as she laughed and nodded. Viewers of this documentary film would get the impression that it was not Mao but Madame Mao who had invited Nixon to China. The climax of the film came when Madame Mao led the Americans to the grand national theater. There, she presented her propaganda ballet The Women of the Red Detachment. The crowd roared her name.
For the next four years, the people of Chin-kiang were forced to watch this film as part of the punishment called “mind reform.” Chin-kiang was cut off from the outside world. I had no idea that history was about to change.
In January 1976, Premier Chou En-lai died. Rumor said that the man had spent his last days pleading for Mao to end the Cultural Revolution. He tried to convince Mao that to save the economy was to save the public’s respect for the Communist Party. Chou En-lai suggested that his replacement be the former vice premier Deng Xiaoping, who had been in exile for years. Mao didn’t listen. He insisted on carrying on the revolution. Nobody was aware that Mao himself was reaching the end of his life. Madame Mao, on the other hand, figured that her time had finally come, and she positioned herself to take power after her husband.
Like everyone else, I was forced to attend the self-criticism meetings. I was eighty-six years old. I followed the crowd and shouted slogans. Inside my mind, I continued to cherish my dreams. I did not desire longevity. It was just a way of life for me to indulge in my past. I had no idea that Pearl had quietly passed away in 1973, less than a year after her request for a visa to China had been rejected.
One morning in October, Bumpkin Emperor went about the town striking his gong and shouting, “Down with Madame Mao and her gang!”
We all thought that he had gone mad.
What was unusual was that Vanguard didn’t come out to arrest Bumpkin Emperor.
“Madame Mao has been overthrown!” Bumpkin Emperor continued. “Deng Xiaoping has taken power!” Bumpkin Emperor tried to convince the people that he was not crazy, but nobody believed him.
A week later an official announcement came from Beijing. What Bumpkin Emperor had told us was true. Madame Mao and her gang had indeed been arrested and were in prison. All her victims, including the people of Chin-kiang, were liberated.
Vanguard was tossed aside as if he were Madame Mao’s trash. My daughter, Rouge, was appointed by the new regime to replace him. Rouge was offered an instant membership in the Communist Party. The decision came from the top. It was the Communist Party’s way to compensate our family for the loss of Dick. Rouge’s only condition was that she be allowed to keep her Christian faith. Papa would have been proud of his granddaughter.
The excitement produced an unexpected tragedy. Carpenter Chan had a stroke after getting drunk during the celebration. He was laughing when it happened. The smile froze on his face. His grandchildren thought he was playing dead with them. They kept pinching his nose. By the time the doctor arrived, it was too late.
The first thing Rouge did as the town’s new boss was hold Carpenter Chan’s funeral. The ceremony took place in the same church he had built for Absalom half a century ago. In his will, Carpenter Chan named Bumpkin Emperor as the next pastor for the Chin-kiang Christian Church.
I sat behind the rows of benches and watched the wide-eyed children. Although their parents had been members of Papa’s guerrilla church for years, this was the first time they had been able to worship openly as a Christian family. Also, it was the first time the church had officially opened its doors in decades. Curious people poured in just to look.
Over the years, we had lost Carie’s piano. But Carie’s songs had survived and been passed on through generations. The children were fascinated by the modern tape player. It played Christmas melodies Lilac had bought from a Hong Kong tourist. “Amazing Grace” remained the all-time favorite.
I closed my eyes as I followed along with the lyrics. I could feel the spirits of Carie, Absalom, and Pearl. I smiled when I remembered how the wood beams had sprouted and how Pearl and I had watched the butterflies coming in and out of the windows while Absalom preached.
Bumpkin Emperor was not a natural when it came to preaching. He tried hard to imitate Papa. “I can’t find words to describe my happiness in serving the Lord,” he said. “That I read from the Bible translated by the founding father of this church, Mr. Absalom Sydenstricker, is a great honor.”
The new regime sought to open the doors to the outside world.
Overnight, Chin-kiang became the focus of the media because of its connection to Pearl Buck.
In 1981, the government granted funds to restore the Pearl Buck Residence in Chin-kiang, although Pearl’s family had lived in it for only a short time. The original bungalow, at the lower end of the town, where Pearl had grown up, was long gone. During the seventies, concrete Russian-style buildings had filled the landscape where it once stood. Though many opposed her, Rouge fought to honor Absalom and Carie as the original founders of the Chin-kiang middle school and the Chin-kiang hospital.
My life changed dramatically. I was protected by the government as “living history.” I was respected and preserved as a “national treasure” and was given many privileges as if I were a baby panda. I moved to a senior home reserved for high-ranking party officials. Doctors were available for me around the clock. To further please me, the government ordered Pearl Buck’s books directly from America. I was given a pair of new glasses plus a magnifier to help me with reading. I sobbed through The Good Earth, The Exile, and Fighting Angel. I felt Pearl’s affection for China on every page. I imagined her frustration and loneliness when she cried, “My Chinese roots must die!” She had more money than she could spend, but she couldn’t buy one ounce of Madame Mao’s mercy.
“Mother,” Rouge said, “my position in the party allows me to see that you get one last wish before your life ends. Name it, and I will see that it is done.”
I already knew the answer. “I would like to visit Pearl Buck’s grave in America.”
Rouge smiled. “I thought you would say that.”
Rouge had inherited her grandfather’s sense of practicality. Although she was not moved by power, she was aware of what power could do. Rouge outlined a proposal regarding my wish to visit America. She made it sound like my visit would benefit the Communist Party.
I worried about rejection when I applied for the passport. Like everyone in China, I understood that when the government spoke about an open-door policy, it didn’t mean that common people were allowed to travel abroad freely, especially to America. The shadow of persecution for having any contact with foreigners still weighed heavily on my mind.
However, Rouge was confident. She wrote letters to important people and made personal visits to the governor’s office, the police bureau, and the passport agency. She didn’t hesitate to play the role of the Communist Party boss that she was.
“Willow Yee’s trip to America will build a bridge between China and America,” Rouge insisted. “Chin-kiang strives to be a model town when carrying out Deng Xiaoping’s new foreign policy. Willow Yee is a loyal citizen whose only motive is to serve her country. As the party leader, I suggest that we make use of her before she expires.”
I went to Carie’s grave and collected a bag of dirt before my departure for America. I packed the bag next to my medicines in my suitcase. Although I suffered only age-related stiffness, the doctors were worried. They didn’t trust that I was fit to travel long distances.
I knew I would make the trip easily. I had been living my life to see Pearl one last time. Rouge was concerned that the American consulate wouldn’t grant me a visa due to my age. She was right. The consul requested proof of health insurance. We didn’t understand what “insurance” meant and had never heard of it. The consul suggested that we purchase a temporary policy for traveling in America. When Rouge received the estimated cost, she was stunned. “The cost of a three-month insurance policy is more than a Chinese person earns in ten years!”
Like Papa, Rouge felt no guilt about taking risks. She redoubled her efforts and pulled strings. She located Dick’s former prisonmate, General Chu, who not only was the new head of the national congress but also knew the American consul general himself. My visa was instantly granted. While Rouge confirmed the last details of my trip, I walked the hills, with the help of my grandchildren, where Pearl and I had once played. My legs were shaky, but I was happy.
I didn’t have to imagine Pearl’s American home, because Rouge showed me the photos sent by the Sino-American Friendship Association. It was beautiful. The place was a complex of houses against green rolling hills and blue sky. I couldn’t wait to see the interior. I imagined the rooms filled with tasteful furniture and decorated with Western art. Pearl would have a library, for she had always been a lover of books. I also imagined that she would have a garden. She had inherited Carie’s passion for nature. The garden would be filled with plants whose names I wouldn’t know, but it would be beautiful.
Where would she lie? I wondered. Growing up in Chin-kiang, she was familiar with the concept of feng shui. But would she apply the concept to her own resting place? After all, she had lived in America as long as she had in China. I wondered what her grave would look like. What would she surround herself with? Would she have a tombstone? Would there be carvings on the stone?
I intended to conduct a little ceremony after I arrived. I would light incense handmade by her friends in Chin-kiang. I would then spread the soil collected from her mother’s grave on her grave. I wanted to see the spirits of Carie and Pearl reunited. It would make me happy if I could accomplish only that.
In Washington, D.C., the Chinese consul, a handsome young man dressed in a Western suit, was upset with me. He had a television crew waiting to document my journey, but I insisted on going alone.
It took a few days for the consul to accept my terms. He bought me a train ticket to Philadelphia. He told me that he had also made a reservation for me at a local inn. I was excited and nervous. I could barely sit still after I got on the train. The landscape passing my window fascinated me. Springtime in America seemed to carry a more masculine yang element than southern China’s feminine yin. America’s mountains and trees were in contrast to Chin-kiang’s rolling bamboo-covered hills and swaying willows. If I were to describe the landscape using a Chinese brush, I would paint America with big strokes and splashes of ink, and I would paint China with hair-thin lines in elaborate detail.
I kept thinking of the time Pearl told me about her first trip to America. She was shocked that not everyone had black hair. She was fascinated at the different-colored people. She had never considered that she was not Chinese until that moment.
I wondered what it had been like for her to return to America and to be with her own people. Except for her face and the color of her hair, she was a complete foreigner. Beneath her skin, she was Chinese. I wondered how she had changed from the Pearl I had known and what she had looked like after she had grown old.
The old lady sitting opposite me had a petite figure. She was fair-skinned with blonde hair. Had Pearl looked like her when she was older? What did my friend have to change about her Chinese self to fit in to American society? It was possible for her to change her tone of voice, but what about her tastes and views that she had formed in China as a child, a teen, and an adult? Pearl once said that she felt enriched, like she owned more than one world. I liked that idea and envied her.
The moment I checked in to the inn, I received a phone call from the Chinese consul. He wanted to make sure that everything was going well. He suggested that I rest and visit the Pearl Buck House the next morning. I thanked him and said that I couldn’t wait. He then suggested that I leave my luggage at the inn. Over the phone, the consul admitted that he was a fan of Pearl Buck, and that he believed that Pearl had honored the Chinese people. He felt terrible about Madame Mao using her influence to have Pearl’s request for a Chinese visa rejected. “Madame Mao was a mad dog,” he concluded.
The consul told me that he had learned from American books and newspapers that Pearl had been wearing a brightly colored, embroidered Chinese robe prior to her death.
“It was said that for weeks Pearl sat in a large chair facing east staring out her window,” he said. “I wonder if what she was looking at is still there. I am curious about the final image she was seeing.”
What had she been thinking? I wanted to know too. Would it be thoughts of her childhood? Would I be in them? To survive, I had been escaping into my past for decades. I often recalled the popcorn man, the way Pearl pushed and pulled the bellows while I rotated the cannon. It was easy to close my eyes and see a vivid image of the popcorn man putting his dirt-colored cotton bag over the cannon while Pearl and I covered our ears. The big bang was always real and loud to my ears. I could even imagine the smell of the delicious popped corn and see Pearl’s smile as we stuffed handfuls into our mouths.
It was late afternoon when I first stepped inside the Pearl Buck House. I stopped just inside the door and examined the space. The room was exactly as I had imagined it. Friendly Caucasian women greeted me. They seemed to be accustomed to receiving non-English-speaking visitors. They suggested that I join the last house tour of the day. I was led to what was called the “Chinese view.”
I held my breath, afraid that it would vanish.
I could no longer hear what the guide was saying. It sounded faraway. I was in shock. The view on the other side of the glass looked like Chin-kiang. I felt like I had stepped into one of my dreams.
There was a gemlike pond cradled by rolling hills. White clouds drifted across the blue sky. Oriental maple trees stood by the pond like giant brown mushrooms. Mandarin ducks waddled about. Baby ducks followed their mothers and played in the water.
Like Carie, who had created an American garden in the middle of Chin-kiang, Pearl had created a Chinese garden around her American home. I remembered Carie’s struggle in growing American roses and dogwood. She helped the plants adapt to the southern Chinese climate and had to fight fungus and diseases. Carie’s roses would produce buds but no flowers. She used soap water and vinegar to kill the bugs and she composted her own soil with wood chips. She held a garden show when her roses finally bloomed.
To what lengths did Pearl go to surround herself with the memories of China? Traces of her effort were everywhere. The rocks laid and plants arranged were according to classic Chinese paintings. I imagined Pearl explaining Chinese aesthetics to her gardeners. I smiled thinking that she might have ended up confusing them.
The tour moved to Pearl’s greenhouse, which was filled with camellia trees. Although it was a large greenhouse, the camellias were crowded. It looked more like a garden nursery. The tour guide said that Pearl Buck was determined to see camellias blossom in the middle of Pennsylvania’s winter. She insisted that it could be done because she had seen camellia trees blossom in the winters in China.
Indeed, camellias thrived during the winter season in southern China. Their blooming branches could be seen on country hills and city streets. Chinese families loved camellias in their living rooms as ornaments. Camellias were among the most popular subjects for Chinese artists.
“The gardener suggested replacing the dying camellias with American winter plants, but Pearl refused,” the tour guide continued. “Pearl insisted on her Chinese camellias. They inspired her to write.”
I learned that Pearl had tried to grow Chinese tea trees, lotus, and water lilies, but they had all failed to survive. Who would understand that this was Pearl’s way of going back to her home in China?
Pearl’s surviving camellias were mature trees now. There were eighteen of them in the greenhouse. They were cramped. They were only two feet apart when it should have been ten. The camellias had run out of space to grow. The view amused me, because I could tell that my friend had been truly desperate. Like a Chinese, she was so in love with camellias that she acquired every variety and color and filled the greenhouse with them. Judging by the size of their trunks, the trees were more than twenty years old. I imagined my friend watering them in the morning. I could see her running around trying to clear weeds, loosen the soil, and spread fertilizers. She loved to use her hands. Her fingernails would look like Chinese peasants’, filled with earth.
The tour showed the visitors that Pearl Buck constantly remodeled her house. In order to create a Chinese-style kitchen, she tore down walls and rearranged studs and beams. She had a large wooden table made, with long benches on each side.
“The kitchen used to be four bedrooms,” the guide said, pointing to where the walls used to be. “Pearl changed things around because she wanted a spacious kitchen.” When she was a child, the kitchen was Pearl’s playground. It was where she spent time listening to stories told by Wang Ah-ma and other servants. It was also where she played hide-and-seek with me.
I was impressed by the door design. It was carved with Chinese characters that said Precious Gem, which was the Chinese translation of Pearl’s name. I didn’t see American arts and crafts. I also didn’t see pictures of Jesus Christ. Instead there was Chinese art and other objects throughout the house. Beautiful indigo carpets, Chinese glass bottles painted with cloud-patterned symbols of luck. Chinese brush-and-ink paintings and calligraphy hung on the walls. Under a single-stemmed lotus was a line from a classic Chinese poem: “Rise out of dirt she remains pure and noble.” The tour guide pointed at the roofed hallway that connected the main house to the cottage and said, “Pearl told her workmen that the Dowager Empress of China had a roofed walkway in the Summer Palace.”
I wondered how Pearl felt when she received the set of Chinese nest boxes-a gift from President Nixon after he returned from China. Pearl must have been pleased and heartbroken at the same time. Did the gift give her hope? Did she still believe that she would one day return to the land of her dreams? Or did the gift make her think that there would never be another opportunity?
My eyes caught the shelf where Pearl’s books lay. Among them was the Dickens novel Pearl had held under her arm when we first met. I would have pulled the book out and kissed its cover if there hadn’t been a do not touch sign.
In the bedroom I saw Carie’s sewing box laid on the table. I was so impacted by the sight of it that my entire being was thrown back in time.
“The soil is prepared and you don’t plant!” I could hear Absalom yelling at Carie. He wanted her to help convert people when they came to thank her for healing their children with Western medicine. Absalom couldn’t get anyone to listen to him because he was seen as a crazy man. He blamed Carie and Pearl for not making their best efforts. “Christians are not Christ!” he told them constantly. Sewing was Carie’s way to escape Absalom. She sewed quietly while Absalom exploded.
Although Pearl defended her father in public, she told me that Absalom deserved his defeats. Pearl couldn’t bear her mother’s sadness, especially when she saw Carie’s tears soaking the cloth she was sewing. “Absalom’s flaw is too big for him to overcome,” she said. “Mother and I are afraid of helping him.”
If it hadn’t been for the heavy bag I was carrying, I wouldn’t have believed that I was walking on American soil. It was early evening. The tour was over and the other visitors were gone. The air was brisk and the sky was turning dark. The trees and earth were blending into one gray color like shadows. It was clear that Pearl had bought this house and the land around it because the place had reminded her of Chin-kiang. For the rest of her life, this was the China she lived with.
How many times had she walked the path where I stood?
Darkness had almost settled in when I exited the house. I went on looking for Pearl’s grave, but it was getting hard to see. I moved like a ghost following the barely visible path. The side road led me back to the inn where I was staying.
The innkeeper, a middle-aged lady, asked if I’d had a pleasant visit.
“I missed seeing Pearl’s grave,” I told her.
“You must have walked right by it,” she said. “It’s easy to miss.”
“There wasn’t a sign, or did I miss that too?” Since arriving in the United States, I had learned that Americans were good with signs.
“Well, it was the way Pearl Buck wanted it.” The lady took out her keys and led me to my room. “Would you like me to book you a cab for tomorrow morning? What time is your train or flight?”
“I won’t leave until I see Pearl’s grave,” I said.
The lady looked at me and I could see the questions in her eyes.
“I have some business at the grave,” I tried to explain, hoping that my English would make sense to her.
“What kind of business?” She sounded cautious, a little suspicious.
I unzipped my backpack and took out the incense and the bag of dirt. I made a gesture of sprinkling dirt and put my palms together under my chin.
She didn’t seem to understand but said, “Here, let me draw you a map.”
I had been awake for a long time waiting for the dawn. At first light, I got up. I followed the inn lady’s map carefully. After turning off the main road, I went down a small dirt path.
The sun outlined the mountains and trees and coated the leaves gold. The view was unfamiliar yet I felt I had been here before. I could hear the sound of my feet moving through the sandy dirt. After a while, I thought I heard the sound of running water. Was it my imagination, because Chin-kiang was known for its creeks? I didn’t expect myself to be missing home, not yet. But no, I wasn’t imagining the sound of water. Here it was, in front of me, under my feet, a running creek.
I decided to inspect the creek and then continue my search for the grave.
The sunlight played across the water’s surface. I followed a path along the creek as it curled into the hills. On the far side of the creek were giant pine trees.
A view opened up. In front of me was a stand of bamboo-the same kind of golden bamboo we had in Chin-kiang.
Then I saw it, my friend’s grave, hidden among the bamboo.
My strength fled me. I dropped to my knees.
There was no English. The grave had three Chinese characters carved in the stone., meaning Pearl Sydenstricker.
My eyes filled with tears of happiness, and this time I did not fight them. I understood Pearl’s intent. Her roots in China hadn’t died. China was the final thing on her mind. China was what she took with her to eternity. It was impossible for her to remove her love, for she, in her own words, “had known the fullness of such love, which was absolute in height and depth.” A Westerner wouldn’t understand the meaning of these Chinese characters, but Pearl didn’t care. No wonder the innkeeper had said that the grave was easy to miss.
I felt as if Pearl were greeting me. I could hear her voice. “How was your journey?”
The three Chinese characters were Pearl’s signature stamp, given to her by her Chinese tutor, Mr. Kung. Pearl once explained her name to me when we were young. The first letter was pronounced Sy, as in Sydenstricker. Out of many same-tone-sounding characters, Mr. Kung chose the one with a “mansion, which has a grand roof,” and a “baby” playing underneath.
“My last name in Chinese means ‘a darling doll in the mansion.’”
Pearl was proud as she explained. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” I remembered replying, although I couldn’t read. I tried to hide this by examining the shape of the first character,. “Look,” I said.
“This is not an ordinary mansion. It is the symbol of money.”
“That’s not money,” my friend laughed. “That’s the people shape.”
“Four of them under the roof!”
“Four workers. My father said that we are all the Lord’s workers.”
“The baby is big-bellied,” I cried.
“She loves food!” Pearl laughed.
The second Chinese character,, was the picture of an oyster, but when combined with the third character,, the meaning changed into Pearl.
My friend had chosen her final resting place beside the creek on purpose. The grave faced east, demonstrating that she had followed the rule of feng shui. The surrounding garden was walled in by pines and cypresses. Besides the bamboo, there were maples, evergreen bushes, and flowers. Wild lilies were scattered alongside the creek. There was a seemingly dead old tree that looked as if it had fallen across the creek. Its trunk was about two feet in diameter and it was rotten and hollow inside. What amazed me was that the tree had a lush green canopy. In the center of the rotten trunk, a young branch was healthy and robust. Pearl must have liked this tree. It fit a line from a Chinese poem, “Spring shows its power in rotten wood and dying trees.”
I touched the cold stone and rested my cheek against it.
Dear Pearl,
Since you couldn’t go to China, I have brought China to you.
It is not the reunion I wished for for so long, but I feel blessed to have the opportunity. Because my memory is failing, and because I didn’t want to forget a thing, I have written six notes to be burned with the incense at your grave.
The first note regards the end of Madame Mao. When she denied you a visa, she was sure of her power. She believed that she would rule China after her husband. But she didn’t last. After Mao died, she was arrested and sentenced to death. It was less than four years after Nixon’s visit.
The second note regards your mother’s grave. It almost didn’t survive during the Cultural Revolution. Mao’s teenage mobs came to destroy the grave. Lilac removed the stone tablet and fooled them. In other words, what the Red Guard destroyed was not your mother’s grave. Today the town of Chin-kiang has reclaimed Carie’s status. She is officially titled the founder of the Chin-kiang middle school. Her spirit is celebrated and honored at each Spring Memorial.
The third note regards you. The mansion where your mother last lived has been turned into the Pearl Buck Residence. I can hear you say, “But that wasn’t my house!” True, however, it is important that the residence in your name be presentable. You should understand that to a Chinese, the place that houses your spirit has to be a temple. Copies of your photos, letters, and books are on permanent display. I was not happy about the display of your calligraphy, because the strokes were not yours. Your writing was touched up by a professor from Beijing College of Art and Calligraphy. It was part of the act of transforming you into a goddess so that people could worship you. I didn’t bother to fight, because I thought that it was better than calling you an American Cultural Imperialist.
The fourth note regards the people who knew you, who, as long as they lived, wondered how you did in America. I’d like to begin with Dick because he knew you well and had the worst luck. He was too close to Mao and died a horrible death. Please forgive me for being unable to report more about him. Dick knew that Hsu Chih-mo loved you. Dick wanted to congratulate you in person when he learned that you won the Nobel Prize. We were not allowed to send a telegram to America. Dick said that Hsu Chih-mo would have been so proud. He would have danced on his head. You will be pleased to know that today Hsu Chih-mo’s poems are extremely popular. Young people worship him as a poet whose voice speaks to their own generation. Newspapers continue to print stories of his affairs as if they took place yesterday, and, of course, they continue to miss the real target.
Papa kept the church going until he died. He became a fighting angel like Absalom except he fought guerrilla style. I am sure you missed Carpenter Chan and Lilac. You knew that Carpenter Chan became a Christian, converted by Absalom, but you might not have known that he joined the Communists after Mao took power. Later he went back to God and worked for Papa. I don’t think Americans are able to comprehend such a life, but you would. You lived in China and knew how things can be.
Lilac missed you so much that she could never stop talking about you. She is the town’s longevity star and is in her nineties. Her three sons inherited their father’s trade. It was a pity that you couldn’t see how they rebuilt Absalom’s church, which is called the Chin-kiang Christian Church. Lilac still fights with Vanguard, the beggar lady Soo-ching’s son, whose name used to be Confucius. This was the mother and son you found in your garden so long ago. He betrayed everyone to please Madame Mao. Soo-ching wanted to disown her son, but Papa convinced her that she’d better forgive or she wouldn’t go to heaven.
You don’t know my daughter, Rouge, but she knows everything about you. She is currently the mayor of Chin-kiang and is in charge of the Pearl Buck Scholarship and the Hsu Chih-mo Scholarship. She gave birth to one girl and adopted two girls from her husband’s previous marriage. All my granddaughters share the same middle name, Pearl. They are Pearl Delight, Pearl Bright, and Pearl Flight.
Remember Bumpkin Emperor, the warlord? He became an ardent Christian and the pastor of our church. You will be shocked. Who wouldn’t be? Like your father, Bumpkin Emperor was obsessed with converting people. He tried to save them the way your father saved him. Bumpkin Emperor remembered you as the mean, straw-haired girl. He never got tired of telling people the story of how you fooled him with that bucket of ink. The People’s Publishing House approached him with the idea of publishing a children’s comic book based on the story.
My fifth note regards the dirt I brought here. It is from your mother’s grave. I’ll sprinkle it around. In the meantime, if I may, I will dig some soil here, a little, just enough to fill the bag. I’ll carry it to your mother’s grave as soon as I return and mix the soils. It pleases me to join your spirits.
The last note regards my own wish. If you don’t mind, I’ll collect some seeds from your trees here. I have no idea of the names of all the trees except that they are American trees. According to the shapes of the nuts, they are flowering trees. The importance of the trees is that they are from where you are buried. I wouldn’t be surprised if you planted them yourself. I imagine you would have. You understood that spirits gather through nature. I hear your voice speaking through the creek, the pines, maples, bamboo, birds, and bees. I will plant the seeds where I will be buried when my time comes. We should then accompany each other forever. I have brought your favorite Tang dynasty poem, “The Tune of Posaman.” “Yangtze River” ought to be changed to “Pacific Ocean,” but I leave it the way it is. I know you always preferred the original.
I live by the Yangtze River near its source,
While you reside farthest down its course.
You and I drink water out of the same stream,
I haven’t seen you though daily of you I dream.
When will this river water cease to run?
When shall I not love you, the way I do?
I only wish our two hearts would beat as one,
And you wouldn’t disappoint me in my love for you.
Joy, gratitude, and sense of peace are what this moment means to me. I thank God for the fortune of having known you.
The creek is singing a happy song. The wind whispers like our old conversations through trembling leaves. The air is pure and the sun warm. Once again, I see you running toward me with sunshine in your face. You look like a jumping cloud in your indigo floral Chinese dress, your golden hair bouncing.
“Willow,” I hear you call, “hurry up, the popcorn man is here!”