The Train to Lo Wu Read Online Free PDF Page B

to interview, first I would listen to you tell your story. In a very relaxed way—no pressure, not too many questions. Then I would go around and talk to other people, and see if they remembered things the way you did. Maybe I could find a document, some kind of official record. Then I would come back and ask the hard questions. Connect the dots.
    He laughs, too loudly; the sound reverberates harshly in the small room. I think you have a hard time with me, he says. I am orphan, you know. I do not even know when I come from China. In the 1950 nobody keep this kind of record.
    Is there any way of finding out? What about your passport?
    Why need passport? Where I go?
    You never tried to find out about your parents? Where you were born?
    He wets his handkerchief under the tap and wipes his face.
    It is impossible. But finding out not so important.
    I think I could help you, she says. The records must be there somewhere. At least we would know when you came, and who brought you. Maybe even your age.
    Xiao Ma, he says. I have no story for you. Nothing tell.
    But I might be able to help you remember.
    Why? Why you want do this for me?
    So that you can know.
    Just for me? All this work?
    Also for my research. For a—for a later project.
    Ah. So I am also subject.
    Mr. Chen, she says, I think you have a story that would be interesting to many people. There has been very little work done on the experience of the blind in China. You could bring to light—
    This not China. This Yau Ma Tei. Hong Kong.
    If I find something, can I bring it to show you?
    Maybe better not.
    In the front room Lao Jiang is arguing with a customer over the benefits of wild versus cultivated ginseng; the young man has a high, nasal voice, and his Cantonese is slurred and shrill, filled with abuse.
Don’t try to cheat me, old man. Look at yourself! Are
you an advertisement for your products?
Standing there, listening, Chen feels a slow paralysis working through his veins, as if his blood had turned to ice. We are finished, he thinks. These young people are the voice of the end.
    Mr. Chen?
    You very determined girl, he says, turning his head to her with an effort. I sorry I can’t more—can’t cooperate.
    I’m not asking for so much, she says, her voice hard and tight. Just the truth. I want to help you find the truth of what happened.
    No, he thinks. You want a prize. You want me to be your prize. He clears his throat. You understand, he says. I live here so long, very quiet, and now I am old and no memories. Only food taste good, weather hot, children make too much noise. You ask someone else.
    He hears the muffled slap of a notebook closing, a pen clicking shut. Keys jingling as she picks up her bag.
    Mr. Chen, she says, you are not a fool. And I am not a fool.
    No. He takes a long breath. No, he says. That not the question.

    Dadao Liu Shaoqi! Dadao Liu Shaoqi!
    Running steps thunder in the corridor. A young man thrusts his
face into the compartment. Down with Liu Shaoqi! he screams. His
face is smeared with coal dust; his eyes are bloodshot. The boy’s father sits up abruptly, banging his head on the bed above. Long live
Chairman Mao! Down with Liu Shaoqi!
    Long live Chairman Mao, his father says weakly.
    Down with Liu Shaoqi!
    Down with Liu Shaoqi!
    His father’s voice rises into a yell and cracks. The young man
seizes him by the shoulders. Down with Liu Shaoqi! he screams. Say
it! Say it! Down with Liu Shaoqi!
    All during the night and into the morning the train fills with
them.
    Blue jackets, blue trousers, blue caps; the girls have their hair
tucked up underneath. Red armbands. Red buttons and pins. Red
stars. Some of them have bedrolls or satchels, but most carry nothing
at all. They cluster together in clumps of eight or ten; if one is left
behind she runs frantically to catch up, butting away everyone in her
path. At every station they pull into, there are more on the platform.
Some have their own flags: “Nanjing Revolutionary Red