Hundred Year Flower

Wuzhou stops at the end of a new road. The cement dust and other signs of recent construction disappear. The crowd of town folk is gone. Only a few bikes and tricycle tractors glide past Lou and his bicycle as he studies the road map.

The road north into Guangxi is really very empty. The hills appear all overgrown with subtropical flesh. The rubbery scrub and leafy trees clamber selfishly upon the soil, making love with heat and water all day. The coiling root pushes its masculine necessity deep into the womanly soil. Life is a blind destiny.

At noon the humid heat is already too much. The sweat streams from Lou's pores and he feels like a flood. The Earth might suddenly liquify and absorb him.

The road winds sharply upwards. Pedalling is hard work, but eventually he tops the big hill. He beholds a vista -- a lumpy line of old mountains covered in trees. Then the road falls down into a valley.

A muddy red building sits between the asphalt and some rice paddies. The sun makes the stems of wet, green rice shine intensely. The brick place is empty but for a counter, a small fridge and a few chairs. Six farm hands follow him inside, looking awestruck.

"Piju," says Lou. A smiling man gets him a cold beer.

The heat is vaporous and enveloping. Everyone rests, avoiding the noon. Nobody can endure the burning press. The sun swelters like a pig. The Earth and wind reflect its cruel radiance.

The people here are like wrung rags. Their words start brightly only to languish, hanging from the edges of the air.

The people are peasants. Clothed in t-shirts and rolled-up trousers, their legs are bare for wet work in the paddy. Men and women labor together here. The muscles beneath their deep dark skin are hard and sleek. But these laborers are often squat and skinny while the thews, arms and chests of some wealthier, hard-working farmers are massive.

Lou is so strangely wonderful. His beard is black and full. He is stripped to the skin and wears only a pair of black spandex shorts. Everyone he meets in China is full of questions he can't understand. He says what little he can," Wo shih Jia-na-da-ren -- I'm Canadian."

Back on his bike, the road begins to climb again. The asphalt surface breaks into gravel and rocks as big as leviathan teeth. Higher up the trees thin out and the rough road makes Lou's progress impossibly slow.

All over western China the valley settlements are locked away from each other by this tall, sharp land. A few busses pass by Lou and one or two police jeeps. The bad road up will never end. It takes two hours to go eight kilometres.

A truck stop sits at the summit. Some folk wait for a bus. But Lou isn't the only one on a bike -- not in this country. Here is a healthy farmer carrying a rice thresher on the back of his bicycle. It is a big wooden box with a mouth on top and a foot treadle on the bottom. The rice stalks go in and grain comes out. These portable tools are taken to the fields during harvest. After gleaning, the rice is sacked and hauled out for drying.

Lou rides down a long way and enters a valley surrounded with lumpy, round hills. An old river slips between the legs of the rice paddies. The roads are perfectly smooth in the country. But in some towns, they are broken into a jumble of impassable lumps, as if the streets were subject to a gigantic water and sewer project with no money left over to rebuild afterwards.

The lush green valleys are so alive with vivid green colors. An homogeneous ambience unites the hues of southwest China. The rice paddies pond the valley bottoms and the rivers flow beside the villages. Sometimes the hills rise steeply. Terrace upon rice terrace step hundreds of meters up.

Four o'clock. Rain clouds roll together overhead as the winds gust.

The village lies in a narrow valley. Small hills ring round the pretty place. Lou rides the road through town to find a river and a grassy open spot beside the water. He wheels his bike down and puts up his tent.

Rain begins to fall. He goes up to the village. Beside the bridge is an inn. The man explains he can stay for the night. He hands him a phrase book some tourist has left behind. Everyone expects Lou to start speaking Mandarin. Then the innkeeper shows him a letter from a Swedish lady who stayed with him the previous year.

Lou is tired. He smokes a cigarette, talking to no one.

The rain suddenly stops. He sees her standing with another girl beside the water near his tent. She comes forward and she smiles as if she knows who he is. The girl's eyes conspire with her joy at seeing him. Her cheeks are round and she speaks English.

"I live here. My name is Laura. She is my cousin."

"I'm Lou. I come from Canada."

"You come far. What are you doing here?"

"I'm travelling to Chongching."

"Such a far way!"

"Your country is very beautiful."

"Yes, it is. I want to invite you. I want you to stay at my home. My house is near. You can help my English. I study English at the university."

"I'd love to."

The girl is easily one of the friendliest Lou has ever met. Together they walk back to the south end of town. They turn right into a lane. They come to a wooden gate in a brick wall made of sandy clay bricks. They step into wide courtyard made of concrete. The house has two-storeys. The earthen bricks sag slightly between the pillars.

Laura leads him into the house to put away his bike. While the manner of its construction is traditional, the alter contains no emblems to remembrance the family or offer homage to the gods. Instead, an old peeling image of chairman Mao papers the alter front.

Laura helps him unfold the sopping wet tent.

"Up there. Keep your bags closed. There is mouses."

"Mice?"

"Yes, they will eat your things. Bad mice. Oh, do you know Mickey Mouse? He's a good mouse!"

The girl giggles and covers her pretty mouth. They hang the tent on a bamboo rack.

Later, Lou writes of Laura in his travel journal," She is Laura, actually, Tsai Sui Mei, a wonderful young woman, the purest country child I ever have the good luck to meet! She wanted to study music because she can play the guitar and sing. But she chose English in the hope of becoming a teacher."

The slim girl gets her mother and introduces them. The graying lady shakes Lou's hand.

"My dad," explains Laura," is working the field. He works from five in the morning until the sun goes down."

"Do you help?"

"In summer I work all day. But summer is very hot. We stop work at lunch, sometimes four hours."

"What do you do all that time?"

"We sit and talk away from the sun. We sleep, and we play cards."

In the corner of the yard is a shrub crimson with new flowers. Laura poses for pictures.

Her smile seems to say, I want more from you. I know you already boy.

Dinner begins when everyone comes home. A single small electric bulb over the wooden table lights up the dining room. The floor is earthen. A simple wood cupboard houses a black and white television. Oddly, a large calendar slickly printed with a photo of an Italian sports car hangs on the wall.

The food is fine. Some chicken and vegetables are stewed with fresh and tasty tofu. It's all mixed in with plenty of rice.

"I have a sister. She's married and lives in Hong Kong."

Two boys sit at the table with Laura, her mother and Lou.

"Are they your brothers?"

"No, my cousins. My uncle lives in the other half of the house."

"Oh."

Laura's father walks in. His back is badly bent. Perhaps the field work did that to him. How many heavy loads has he lugged around? Maybe he suffers from osteoporosis and his bones have shrunk. Laura says her father is sixty. He does not seem too surprised to meet Lou, and smiles to himself.

Laura shows Lou to the shower, a big plastic pail full of cool water. The day's dust is soon gone.

Laura gives her bedroom to Lou for the night. It is plain. The plaster paint flakes away along with aging posters of well-dressed ladies. Laura's high school diploma is there, too. On her tiny desk sits a cassette radio, a few books and a large flower.

"What's this? "Lou asks, looking at the creamy yellow blossom.

"A hundred year flower."

"What does that mean?"

"It opens for one hundred years. Keep one and your family lives forever."

Laura's bed is made of planks on a rickety bedstead. A terry towel covers the slats. A white mosquito net hangs over everything else.

"I'll see you in the morning."

The home is solitary on all the Earth. A new moon makes sure of that feeling. The very dark night clasps the house. But Lou will not sleep. It is only ten minutes since she has gone. The silence is country deep.

Then something imaginary comes into the room. Laura appears in a glowing vision. Sitting at her desk, the apparition turns towards him. The smile on her face speaks a quiet tongue of innermost heart. The apparition of Laura turns to him twice, like the afterimage of her soul, a delirium brought upon by his wish for love. The translucent girl has come into the room as if she knows he wishes for her love.

The presence looks into him, as if he ought to know something. Her eyes forgive all he is, was and will become. Strange vision beyond ecstasy!

Lou sleeps.

Morning finds the house quiet. It is empty except for Laura and her mother. He says nothing about her coming to him. Perhaps Laura has a family full of ghosts.

The girl meets him in the door as he slips into his shirt.

"This is for you."

She holds out a jadite crucifix. It is a green thing, and it lights up his chest.

"God bless you."

"It's beautiful. Do you believe in Buddha?"

"God? Not anymore. We used to. You can pray if you want to."

"You're too kind to me."

"Don't be a silly boy."

"I promise to send you some pictures."

The girl writes her name and address in Lou's notebook.

"You know, our people are not always nice. Some of us are very mean. But not everyone. We want to be good. We don't see people like you."

"Hug me. H-u-g, hug," says Lou and grabs her into his surging heart.

He gazes at her smiling face for a long minute. Laura is innocent and lovely.

Lou waves goodbye and pedals slowly away.

1800 words, Copyright © 06 10 1996 by David Antoniuk