“I have no regrets.”
The words of Yeye hung in the air like a feather. They hovered at first, and then began a slow descent, fluttering without obvious direction.
It was November 1984 in Beijing. I was making my daily visit to the hospital to see my grandfather Yeye, who was dying from lymph cancer. On that cloudy Thursday afternoon, he was unusually candid with me, recounting his story of his last concubine whom I lovingly addressed as Nainai, which means grandmother in Chinese.
“One winter, I think it was the New Year ball at the Peking Hotel. Your Nainai was dressed in a full-length white mink coat.”
The spacious room Yeye shared with seven other patients was always filled with moans of pain … or sounds of boredom … or calls for service that would never come. But that afternoon as soon as Yeye began his reminiscence, the room fell into total silence as if the walls were also listening. The others in the room were all seniors. Were they also mindful of their own thrilling lives and reckoning with their own looming mortality? Yeye’s voice was weak and he would dose off occasionally then regain a little energy to continue.
“Underneath she wore this long red evening gown.”
Yeye customarily put his left hand over his forehead.
“You know what an evening gown is, right?” He paused briefly.
“I saw one of the pictures you sent from Hong Kong when you were wearing a long green dress ..” He faintly continued.
China had been housed in a vacuum for three decades during Mao’s reign, when we were all clothed in one style with two colors, factory blue or army green. Dresses and suits were foreign concepts.
I gently squeezed his right hand to concur.
“Your Nainai was adorable in this full-length bright red evening gown. She had on red nail polish.” Yeye pulled his hand out from mine and slowly stretched out his finely shaped fingers to emphasize his point.
“When we walked in, the entire ballroom fell into silence. The bright chandeliers paled in comparison to her. Holding onto her narrow waist, we danced the night away.”
Yeye shook his head slightly.
“I couldn’t be more proud.”
Another pause. Then he opened his eyes, unfocused at first. He used his right hand to hold mine then topped it with his remaining hand.
“I have no regrets.”
Evincing strenuous effort, he repeated his answer to my earlier question about his wife Popo, my maternal grandmother. Then he closed his eyes and placed his hands on his chest, as if sleeping. I reached out to hold his hands. He gently squeezed mine. Two thin streams of tears rolled down his sunken cheeks. He used his left hand to wipe them off and, as was his habit, kept his hand on his forehead. A few moments later, he slid his right hand from mine and waved me off.
“Go, keep your Nainai company. I’m fine here.”
I have no regrets. These four simple words were just what they appeared to be, namely, that he had nothing to apologize for. At the time I was only 23, and all I cared about was if I had the latest shoes and handbags. Actually I did not remember his statement was stemming from my question or he offered it himself as a relief, because less than an hour later, Yeye passed away.
Now a quarter of century later, that feather has firmly landed on the ground. I finally understand the full implications of what Yeye’s last words had stirred up.
The day after Yeye’s funeral, as I was packing up, getting ready to leave for Hong Kong where I was living at time, Naiani asked me to go to Xinghua Yuan, the old luxury bathhouse with her. It was there, where we frequent so often before the Cultural Revolution she told me this story.
[...] Prologue [...]