Journey Across the Four Seas (34 page)

At the embassy, a new consul met with us. It turned out that the consul who had interviewed Agnes had left his post, and his successor wanted to start the process over. One look at the new consul put me on guard. He was old and grave, and his face was shaped like a coffin. After listening to the interview for a few minutes, I realized that he was asking the same question over and over, phrased in different words and context. I thought Agnes parried them quite well, but it seemed that the consul had already made up his mind before he met us. Thrusting his coffin face at Agnes, he told her that she was a liar. "I’ve interviewed many girls like you," he said. "Once you set foot on American soil, you’ll never come back." He rejected her application right then and there. As we walked out of the embassy gates, Agnes broke into tears. I sheltered her shoulders in my arm, and swore to her that she hadn’t heard the end of the story yet. "
You will go to
America
,
" I said.

I went begging to Baba. He’d stopped talking to me since Hok-Ching told him of my decision to take the children back to
Hong Kong
. He viewed me as a traitor to the country, to the family, to him. Nonetheless, Agnes was his granddaughter. He must want the best for her too. I pleaded with Baba to intervene. In his position, all he needed was to pick up the phone and the matter would be set right in an instant. Baba refused: "If the
U.S.
won’t let her in, there’s nothing I can do. What’s wrong with staying in
Taiwan
?" He thought his beloved
Taiwan
was the center of the world, the height of civilization.

I racked my brain for ideas. The face of an acquaintance at the International Women’s Club surfaced. At one of the parties, I’d sat next to the wife of a personnel officer at the
U.S.
embassy. As few of the guests could speak English fluently, they’d been glad to have me to chat with. They were a fun-loving and big-hearted couple who reminded me of certain characters in American movies. I could hardly claim these people as my friends after one social evening. Normally, a person would need thick skin to ask a favor from mere acquaintances. But this wasn’t a normal time; it was a turning point in my daughter’s life.

I went to the embassy and asked to see the Personnel Officer. He must have remembered my name, for he sent his secretary to show me to his office. Before I could sit down, I was already spilling out the story of Agnes’s rejection. Without the least hesitation, the affable American agreed to help. "Your daughter’s grandfather is the Deputy Prime Minister of the Republic of China. She has a bright future in her own country. After she finishes her studies, I have no doubt that she’ll come back."

Agnes got her visa soon after. I was happy for her but sad for myself. I’d been desperately fighting to hold my family together, but the battle was already lost the minute my husband lost heart and ran home to his father. I was taking Joe, Veronica, and Chris to join Patrick in Hong Kong; Hok-Ching was staying in
Taiwan
, hoping against hope that the permit might still come through; and Agnes was flying thousands of miles to the other end of the globe. She would get her first degree, then her second. Most likely she would do what most foreign students do—find a good job in the
U.S.
and buy a big house and car. In the meantime, she would have to study hard during the school year and work in the summer to earn her keep. It pained me that I wouldn’t be able to send her an allowance or fly her home for vacations. I had four other children to support, and at this point whether or not I could scrounge together enough to feed and clothe them was a big question mark. Until Agnes could afford her own plane ticket, I wouldn’t see her again.

If we’d reaped any benefit from Baba’s high-level connections, it was the privileges we got at the airport. On the day I left for
Hong Kong
with half the family, Agnes was allowed to accompany me all the way to the foot of the plane. She was to leave for
America
from
Taipei
a month later. While the pilot waited, I clung to my firstborn.

2

I was at the nadir of my life. A forty-six-year-old woman with no husband by her side, few resources and many children, was as low as low could be. Although I had a job, my salary was just enough to cover rent. The remains of my savings could mend and patch for a while, but with the large number of mouths to feed, it couldn’t last more than a few months. Lying in bed alone at night, I thought of the days when Mother sent me to beg from friends and relatives. The painful memory was a wound that would never heal, and I swore that my children would never suffer such injury. If anyone had to beg, I would do it.

I wrote to my brothers for help. The eldest, Yung, who had financial problems of his own, was spared. The response of the other two was most generous. Ngai gave Agnes 2,000 American dollars as a going-away present. He’d married the girl he had befriended at the sanitarium, and was now a professor at
Singapore
University
. Brother Kin, who was still running an export-import business in
Thailand
, promised to send me a monthly subsidy. This was his reply: "Your household expenses are my household expenses. I’m sending you $1,000 a month; if that’s not enough, all you have to do is ask." His letter made me cry with joy for having such a wonderful brother and with shame for my worthlessness.

My circumstances improved somewhat several months later, when Hok-Ching scuttled home with his tail between his legs. The flour mill was still in limbo and seemed destined to remain there for the rest of eternity. Through a Shanghainese friend, Hok-Ching found a job in a company in
Hong Kong
. I never so much as asked him the name of his employer. He told me the position involved clerical work, accounting, and whatever else needed doing. I knew this much only because I couldn’t prevent his words from entering my ears.

By all appearances we were the same couple, but by the feelings in my heart we were strangers. I seldom had anything to say to him. When I did, it was to remind him of his sins. "We’re doing very well," I often said within his earshot. "The vehicle we ride in is getting bigger and bigger. We started out with a small sedan, then we upgraded to a chauffeured limo, and now we’ve graduated to a public bus!" He usually clamped his jaws together for a long time.

But life went on. With five children on my back, I had to keep moving forward, whether it be by car, donkey, or my own two feet. Life is like that. In times of crisis, you’ll do whatever is necessary to survive. Actually, you do more than survive. You become alive, active, and, believe it or not, even happy. You no longer feel like a little boat drifting aimlessly on a flat sea, but a battleship plowing through a storm. There’s so much to do to stay afloat that you have no time to feel sorry for yourself. This is a strange phenomenon, but having experienced it many times, I know that’s how it is.

*

Though at the nadir of my life, I was at the peak of my power. Professionally, I’d never felt more satisfied. Although I would never claim that teaching became the love of my life, I can at least say that I did a reasonably good job. Having raised four teenagers, a class of thirteen-year-olds no longer terrified me. I treated them as I would my own. With patience and kindness I guided them through the intricacies of English grammar. While other teachers imposed discipline through punishment, I never had the heart to send a student to detention, make him stand in a corner, or shame him with harsh words. My reputation quickly spread, and students fought for a place in my class.

At home, my relationship with my husband was lower than low. I didn’t even care whether he was cavorting with bar girls and nightclub hostesses. Ironically, the less I cared, the more devoted to me he became. He handed me his paycheck every month, never went out by himself except to work, and seldom touched alcohol. What astonished me most was his mild tone of voice. Instead of howling like a savage when he couldn’t have his way, he took to reasoning like a civilized man. If all the pain I’d suffered gave birth to this new and better man, every drop of my tears was worth its salt. He would never bring me wealth—that much was certain—but he could be my partner in fulfilling my ambitions for our children.

The lower I fell, the more determined I was to see my children soar. Every one of them was going to have at least one college degree, although in Patrick’s case, a small miracle would be needed. He’d passed the Form Five School Certificates, but scored only one credit, in English. Wah Yan required a minimum of two credits for continuing on to Lower Six. With one meager credit to his name, Patrick failed to meet Wah Yan’s criterion. If he were kicked out, the odds of his getting into university were close to zero.

I went to see the school administrators to plead for mercy. On my way up the steps to the vice principal’s office, I ran into Father Cunningham. He grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me into his arms. The tall, lean priest with the beaked nose and thin lips was famous for his passion for his flock. He had a habit of swooping a girl onto his lap and digging his fingers into her ribs. My daughters hated to be tickled by the priest. In their teenage years they kept their distance whenever the priest visited, but somehow they always wound up sitting on his lap.

On that day, I was most happy to be grabbed by him. Patrick was Father Cunningham’s favorite pupil. Of all the priests at Wah Yan, he would be my strongest ally. We started in unison, "I want to talk to you about Patrick." We laughed, but quickly became serious again. I told him the purpose of my appointment. Still clinching my elbow, he walked with me into Father Chan’s office.

Father Chan got up to greet me. The Chinese Jesuit had grown plump over the years. When I first met him, he was a young priest, sleek and handsome in his flowing cassock. While I admired him as an educator and a disciplinarian, I was also wary of him. Patrick was his least favorite student, and he’d voted against Father Cunningham many times to expel Patrick.

The three of us sat down in a triangle. Both men’s eyes were on me. "Father Chan, Father Cunningham," I nodded to one and the other, "you’ve both known Patrick many years. He was a bad student in primary school, but after I started helping him at home he was able to pass the standardized tests. He wasn’t the best student in secondary school, but he was at least average. When he was in Form Four, I had to move to
Taiwan
because of my husband’s business. As a result, his grades fell. But ever since I came back, he’s been doing all right again. If you let him stay in Wah Yan, I promise you he’ll work harder than ever before."

I cut short my speech, for I could see that Father Cunningham was dying to speak. Addressing his colleague and winking at me, he said, "Patrick is a smart boy. Look at how he handles a soccer ball. Don’t you remember how we beat the DBS boys? That was an excellent game, superb!" While he gushed, the other priest kept the detached expression of Buddha. "Patrick is also the star of our school play. I’ve never seen a boy recite Shakespeare with as much poise as he does. I’ve already got a role for him in next year’s play. We’re doing
The Merchant of Venice
, and he’s going to be Antonio. He’s just perfect for the part, don’t you think?" Whatever Father Chan thought, he didn’t say.

"And then there’s the debate team. Patrick is quick on his feet, has a fine sense of humor, and such stage presence! You see how he throws out his chest and articulates like a barrister? He’ll make an excellent lawyer!"

Father Chan burst out laughing. Seeing the irritation on Father Cunningham’s face, he clamped a hand over his mouth to compose himself. When he was ready to speak, I was all ears. Although Father Cunningham was powerful and popular, Father Chan was in charge of academics.

"Wah Yan has high standards for its students," Father Chan said, facing me. "If I make an exception for Patrick, the other students will hear about it. Their parents will come to me and beg me for favors too. This will lower the standards of the school. I have no right to do that."

I was afraid this would be his answer. The banner he raised was sacred. Even Father Cunningham couldn’t challenge it. All he could do was suggest alternatives. With his usual enthusiasm, Father Cunningham rattled off various kinds of vocational programs in which Patrick would thrive. His thin lips moved rapidly about a school for training air traffic controllers, another for training something else. He thought Patrick would make an excellent this, an excellent that, but I’d respectfully tuned him off.

There were no ifs or buts about it—Patrick was staying in the academic stream. Vocational schools were for dropouts. My son would finish secondary school and go on to university. He would get into a profession that would earn him a good and steady living. Becoming a lawyer was overly ambitious—even I had to agree with Father Chan, but surely there was some other career that required less study. As Father Cunningham pointed out, my son had many talents. The problem was that
Hong Kong
had no room for them. He needed to go to a larger place.
America
would be large enough, but I just couldn’t see how I could afford to send another child overseas.

I thanked the two priests and took my leave. Father Cunningham said he would call me after he’d talked to the director of a certain training program. I humored him, but my heart was set on its own course. Patrick would attend New Method. Although it was a mediocre school, it would give him the chance to sit for the university entrance exam.