A Map for the Missing(24)
“What a tragedy,” his American colleagues said to him. “That the government would kill their own people, because they hate democracy so much.” Then, the next year, the American president was on TV signing an order giving Chinese students green cards to protect them from political persecution. Yitian had thought there was something false about the reasoning that they needed protection from their own homes. Protection was an uncertain concept, implying both protected and protector, but Yitian couldn’t discern the boundaries of either word. And yet, he couldn’t deny his desire for the safety he had received. This was what he thought of as he signed the forms giving him the identity of a new country.
Now he told the officer, simply and lamely, that he’d immigrated to America.
“I see, I see. That explains everything! You should have said so earlier!”
The officer excused himself to make a phone call in the adjacent room, so excited that he forgot to close the door properly. Yitian could hear everything when he exclaimed that there was an American in the office.
“I told you not to say anything,” his mother scolded.
* * *
—
When the officer returned, it was with the police chief, a younger, noticeably better-dressed man whose eyes had a sharpness to them, the gaze of one accustomed to judgment and evaluation, a person happy to tell others no.
“Officer Po has apprised me of the situation,” the chief said. He spoke with a bland and implacable accent, not dissimilar to the one Yitian slowly adopted after he’d left the village. “It’s rare that we have someone like you come here.” He took great pauses between sentences to gaze meaningfully at Yitian. He ignored Yitian’s mother entirely.
“So, I’ve been told your father is missing. I’m sure we can find him—he’s an old man, right? He can’t have gone so far. We’ll contact all the villages.”
“I can give you his description, if that helps. Here, I have a picture, too.” Yitian pulled out a photograph of his father, the only one they had. The picture was black-and-white, depicting a man almost forty years younger, who’d just enlisted in the military. The expression on his face was defiant, clearly proud, as if in the middle of a retort to the photographer just a second before the shutter snapped.
“Yes, yes, that would help. Very smart, you are, from all your years abroad.” The chief took the photo without a glance. “That’s exactly the kind of information we need.
“It’s a lot of work for us, though,” the chief continued. “I’d need to send all my officers out to go look, and they wouldn’t be here in the station for days. What if there’s an incident in the township while they’re away? You have to understand, it’s a great burden to us.”
“What do you mean, sir? Of course I would greatly appreciate it.”
“We appreciate your . . . appreciation. But you see, appreciation isn’t the only thing. Is there anything else you can offer us? To help us, in this small place. You must understand, we don’t have very many resources. Not like you in America.”
Oddly, the word put Yitian at ease. He felt a click of confirmation. He excused himself to the hallway, where he counted his money and calculated the very most he could afford. He rolled the bills into a narrow cylinder that he hoped would disguise how little there actually was. The amount was hardly a quarter of his monthly salary. What choice did he have? If he refused to pay the bribe, he’d be viewed as stingy, not even willing to part with this small sum of money in the hope of finding his father. He was sure that his mother would note that sad fact, even as she pretended to be outraged by the request. In the absence of providing actual help, climbing these mechanical steps on the ladder of obligation was the best he could do.
When he handed the bills to the police chief, Yitian expected a protest about the amount, but to his surprise, the chief simply squeezed the money and then smiled broadly—not the one of before, full of implication, but this time lit with genuine pleasure.
It was the simplicity of this guile that told Yitian he’d wasted his money. The officer was waiting to snigger, unable to believe he’d pulled this off. The money would be distributed to the others as soon as he and his mother left, and no one would ever speak of this case again, except perhaps to mention Yitian as the gullible foreigner who’d financed a few weeks of their drinking. They’d mock him, how he didn’t understand any of their ways because he was American now, and in that mocking would be a scorn even deeper than they would show to a real white American, the anger at a fellow countryman who’d accessed a whole new world they never would.
* * *
—
Afterward, he and his mother walked slowly and silently through the central street. She did not even scold him about the bribe. Between them he felt an unspoken heaviness and disbelief that they’d reached a dead end so quickly.
Women came out of their shops, leaned against their brooms, and stared. Wrinkles collected in the straight lines of their mouths, determined to reveal nothing. They didn’t seem to be affected by the cold at all. He was sure that somehow the entire town had heard about the arrival of an American. When they were children, the town was the exciting place Yitian and Yishou looked forward to visiting for weeks. The trips could only be demanded by some special occasion or errand, but when the work of their visit was done, he and his brother snuck out onto this street to stare hungrily at the shops selling fragrant food they couldn’t afford. Yishou, the more charming one, could watch a shopkeeper with such open eyes that she’d take pity upon them and hand over scraps. The women hanging up wooden boards over their shops had been powerful people then, but now all the storefronts looked shabby and provincial. Even the smells of food wafting to him felt unclean rather than inviting. The only person who ignored them was a single boy leading a cow upon a rope, their two shadows creeping and announcing them long after they walked past.