Frog

  Our family-centred obstetrics services are tailored to communication between the pregnant woman, including those in labour, and our high quality medical team, with an emphasis on medical education.

  The middle-aged man and Xiao Bi walked up to the front desk, where they spoke briefly to the receptionist before being led by an elegant woman to seats in a VIP area to the left of the lobby. They sat in brick red high-backed chairs behind a table with a vase of mauve roses. The man sneezed, and nearly made me jump out of my chair. It was a strange and distinctive sneeze, loud as an exploding detonator that triggered a memory. Could that be him?

  Our doctors initiate detailed conversations with the pregnant woman and their family regarding the state of the woman’s health, the state of the foetus, the mother’s nutritional and exercise routines, and other concerns.

  I desperately wanted to share my discovery with Little Lion, but she was too focused on the brochures, muttering as she read. How can they call this a hospital? Who can afford to stay in a place like this . . . With her back to Xiao Bi, she hadn’t noticed their arrival.

  Apparently concerned that they were too conspicuous, the man stood up, took Xiao Bi by the hand, and walked over to the coffee shop at the rear of the entry hall, separated by large pots of tortoise-shell bamboo, with their jade green leaves, and a potted banyan tree whose leafy branches nearly touched the ceiling. The wall behind a fireplace was papered in a red brick design. The coffee shop was equipped with a bar with a rack filled with brand name liquor. A young man in a black bowtie was brewing gourmet coffee whose fragrance blended with the floral perfume to produce a sense of nurturing.

  The hospital is also equipped with a rehearsal room for women late in their pregnancy. Delivery options are discussed with doctors and nurses, based upon the pregnant woman’s particular situation, and a mother-to-be classroom, all structured to enhance communications between hospital staff and patients, who are given unlimited opportunities to make their needs, concerns, and questions known.

  He sat there with a cup of coffee, talking intimately with Xiao Bi. Yes, indeed, that’s who it was. A person can change the way he talks, but not the way he sneezes. A person can turn single-fold eyelids into double folds, but the greatest plastic surgeon alive cannot change the look in a man’s eyes. He was talking easily and laughing no more than twenty metres from me, totally unaware that a childhood friend was watching him. And as I watched, the wicked and merciless Xiao Xiachun, no longer with single-fold eyelids, separated himself from the body of the distinguished man.

  It’s hopeless! Little Lion said dejectedly as she tossed the brochure onto the table and leaned back. US-trained doctors, French-trained graduates, medical college professors . . . top medical group in the country . . . the only way they’d let me in here would be to clean the toilets . . .

  We were from the same hometown, we lived in Beijing at the same time, and yet I hadn’t seen him even once. I recalled how his father had paraded up and down the streets shouting, My son has been given a job at the State Council! after graduating from college. He spent several years in an office there before being taken on as the secretary to a bureau chief, and from there he took a post as deputy Party secretary somewhere. Then he left public office and became a real estate mogul worth billions . . .

  The elegant woman who had greeted us located the two of them and led them out back somewhere. I shut the brochure I was reading. The back cover showed the hands of a doctor and a pregnant woman, all resting on her swollen belly. The text at the top read: Mothers-to-be and their children are family to us. We provide the best treatment found anywhere. You will be able to soak up our atmosphere of sweetness and experience the blessing of total care and attention.

  In a complete funk as we left the hospital, Little Lion used every hackneyed political expression she could think of to excoriate these modern developments. I was too occupied with my own thoughts to pay attention to her. But her monotonous chatter started to bother me. All right, madam, enough sour grapes!

  Rather than get angry with me, she just coughed up a bitter laugh and said, All a rustic doctor like me is good for is raising bullfrogs at Yuan Sai’s farm.

  We came back here to live in retirement, I said, not look for work.

  I have to find something to do, she said. Maybe I can work as a live-in wet nurse.

  Enough, I said. Say, guess who I just saw?

  Who?

  Xiao Xiachun. He changed his appearance, but I recognised him.

  Impossible, she said. What would a rich man like him be doing back here? You must have mistaken somebody else for him.

  If it had been my eyes, possibly, but not my ears. No one on earth sneezes like him. Then there were the look in his eyes and that laugh. He couldn’t change those.

  Maybe he’s come back for another big investment, Little Lion said. I hear we’re going to fall under Qingdao administration before long. When that happens, the price of land and houses will shoot up.

  Now, guess who he was with?

  How am I supposed to guess that, Little Lion replied.

  Xiao Bi.

  Who?

  Xiao Bi, the girl at the bullfrog farm.

  I see, she said. I knew she was a slut the minute I laid eyes on her. There’s something unclean about her relationship with your cousin and Yuan Sai.

  6

  Little Lion found the bullfrog farm repugnant, and had little good to say about Yuan Sai and my cousin. But the day after we visited the Sino-American Jiabao Women and Children’s Hospital, out of the blue she said: Xiaopao, I’m going to work at the bullfrog farm.

  That was a shock. Her large face beamed with a smile.

  Really. I’m not joking, she said soberly, the smile gone.

  Those critters, I’ve been trying to drive the stubborn image of bullfrogs out of my head – after watching Gugu’s TV documentary I think I developed a phobia of all frogs – and now you say you want to raise those critters?

  There’s no reason to be afraid of frogs, you know, since we have the same ancestors. Tadpoles and human sperm look about the same, and there isn’t much difference between frog and human eggs. And there’s more – have you seen human foetus specimens in the first three months, how they have a long tail? They’re just like frogs in their metamorphic stage.

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

  Why does the word for frogs – wa – sound exactly like the word for babies – wa? This was a prepared speech. Why is the first sound a newborn baby makes an almost exact replica of a frog’s croak? How come so many of the clay dolls made in Northeast Gaomi Township are holding frogs in their arms? And why is the ancestor of humans called Nü wa? Like the ‘wa’ for frog. Doesn’t that prove that our earliest ancestor was a frog, and that we have evolved from her? The theory that men evolved from apes is wrong . . .

  As she went on and on I began to detect a conversational style used by Yuan Sai and my cousin, and I knew that she’d fallen under the spell of those two smooth talkers.

  Okay, I said, if you’re bored at home with nothing to do, you can give it a try. But, I added, trying to sound prophetic, I’m betting you’ll pack it in within a week.

  7

  Sensei, even though I said I opposed Little Lion’s plan to work at the bullfrog farm, deep down I was pleased. I am by nature someone who treasures his time alone; I like to go for solitary walks, when I can reflect on the past. And if there’s nothing in the past that captures my fancy, I let my thoughts go where they will. Taking walks with Little Lion is something I need to do, and no matter how unpleasant it is to carry out such responsibilities, it’s important to pretend I’m happy and excited to be doing them. Now things have taken a positive turn, since she leaves the house early in the morning to work at the bullfrog farm, getting there on a motorised bicycle she said my cousin had bought for her. I watch through the window as she primly motors down the riverside road, silently and effortlessly on the new ride. Once her figure disappears, I hurry down
the stairs

  Over a period of several months, I visited several communities north of the river. Traces of my travel could be found in woods, flower gardens, supermarkets big and small, a massage parlour run by the blind, a public fitness park, beauty salons, pharmacies, lottery stalls, malls, furniture stores, and the riverside farm products outlet. I took pictures everywhere I went with my digital camera, like a dog lifting its leg to leave its mark from place to place. I walked through fields and stopped at construction sites. Work on the impressive main buildings at some of the sites was finished, whereas work at other sites had not progressed beyond the foundation preparation, with no hint as to what was coming.

  After taking in the sights on the northern bank, I turned my attention south. I could cross the high-arching suspension bridge, or I could let the flow of the river take me on a bamboo raft a dozen li or so all the way to Ai Family Pier. I usually walked; rafting seemed too risky for me. But when an accident snarled traffic on the bridge one day, I decided to take a raft and relive my experience of many years before.

  My rafter was a young man in a Chinese-style jacket with cloth buttons. Just about everything out of his mouth was a buzzword in a heavy rural accent. His vessel was constructed out of twenty lengths of thick bamboo, with an upturned bow on which sat a painted dragon’s head. A pair of red plastic stools was fixed to the deck in the centre of the raft. He handed me plastic bags to tie around my ankles to keep my shoes and socks dry. City folk, he said with a laugh, like to take off their shoes and socks. The women’s little feet are as pale as whitebait fish, and they make a funny squishing sound when they dip in the water. I took off my shoes and socks and handed them to him. He put them into a metal box and said, half jokingly, That’ll be a one yuan storage fee. Whatever you say, I replied. He tossed me a red life vest. You have to put that on, old uncle, or the boss will fine me.

  When he poled us out into the river, rafters crouching on the riverbank cried out, Have a good trip, Flathead. Don’t fall into the river and drown!

  He skillfully poled us out into the river. No way, he said. If I drowned, your little sister would be a widow, wouldn’t she?

  We picked up speed out in the middle of the river, where I took out my camera and snapped shots of bridges and riverbank scenes.

  Where are you from, old uncle?

  Where do you think? I replied in my hometown accent.

  You from around these parts?

  Could be. Your father and I might have been schoolmates! His long, flattened head reminded me of a classmate from Tan Family Village. Flathead was what we’d called him.

  That’s possible, but I don’t know you. May I ask what village you’re from?

  Just keep poling, I said. It’s okay if you don’t know me. But I know your parents.

  The young fellow plied his bamboo pole expertly, turning to look at me from time to time, obviously trying to place me. I took out a cigarette and lit it. He sniffed the air. Unless I’m mistaken, old uncle, that’s a China brand you’re smoking.

  He wasn’t mistaken. Little Lion had given me a soft pack of China cigarettes, from Yuan Sai, she’d said. He’d told her they were a gift to him from some big shot. Yuan smoked Eight Joys only.

  I took out a cigarette, leaned forward, and handed it to him. He leaned forward to take it, turned sideways to stay out of the wind, and lit it. He obviously loved the taste, as his face twisted into a slightly screwy expression I found sort of handsome. It’s not everyone who can afford to smoke cigarettes like this, old uncle.

  A friend gave them to me.

  They had to be given to you. No one who smokes these ever buys them, he said with a grin. You must belong to the ‘four basicallys’.

  And what are those?

  Your cigarettes are basically gifts. Your salary basically stays the same. You basically don’t need a wife . . . I forget the fourth.

  Your nights are basically filled with nightmares, I said.

  That’s not it, he said, but I really can’t remember what the fourth one is.

  Then don’t worry about it.

  It’ll come back to me. Come take another ride tomorrow. I know who you are now, old uncle.

  You do?

  You must be Uncle Xiao Xiachun. Another of those strange laughs. My father said you were the most talented student in his class. You’re the pride not only of that class, but the pride of our Northeast Gaomi County.

  The man you’re talking about really is the most talented. And that’s not me.

  You’re just being modest, old uncle. I knew you were somebody special as soon as you stepped onto my raft.

  Is that the truth? I asked with a smile.

  Of course it is. Your forehead shines and there’s a halo over your head. You’re a very rich man!

  Have you studied physiognomy with Yuan Sai?

  You know old Uncle Yuan? He smacked himself on the forehead. How could I be so stupid? Of course you do, you were classmates. Uncle Yuan’s talented too, but he’s no match for you.

  Don’t forget your father, I said. I recall he can make a complete circle around the basketball court on his hands.

  How hard can that be? he said with a note of contempt. All brawn and no brains. But you and Uncle Yuan know how to use your head. ‘A thinking man rules others, a working man is ruled by others.’

  You’ve got the gift of gab, just like Wang Gan, I said with a laugh.

  Uncle Wang is gifted, but he walks a different path than you, he said. His triangular eyes narrowed. Uncle Wang pretends to be a fool as he rakes in the money.

  How much can he rake in selling clay dolls?

  Uncle Wang doesn’t sell clay dolls, he sells art. There’s a price for gold, old uncle, but art is priceless. Of course, next to you, Uncle Xiao, the little money Uncle Wang Gan makes is like comparing a pond and the ocean. Uncle Yuan Sai has a quicker mind than Uncle Wang, but he can only make so much from a bullfrog-breeding farm.

  If his money doesn’t come from the farm, where does it come from?

  Don’t you really know, old uncle, or are you teasing me?

  I really don’t know.

  Old uncle, you’re making fun of me. I thought anyone who reached your station in life knew every trick in the trade. Even a lowly commoner like me hears things, so how could you not know?

  I’ve only been back a few days.

  Okay, let’s say you don’t know. Since you’re from around here, there’s no harm in a foolish nephew like me prattling on to keep you from getting bored.

  Go on.

  The bullfrog farm is just a front for Uncle Yuan, he said. His real business is helping people make the other kind of ‘wa’ – babies.

  That shocked me, but I tried not to show it.

  To put it nicely, it’s a surrogate-mother centre. Not so nicely, he hires women to have babies for other women who can’t have them.

  People actually engage in that kind of business? I asked him. Doesn’t that make a mockery of family planning?

  Oh, old uncle, what times are you living in, bringing up something like family planning? These days the rich fine their way to big families – like the Trash King, Lao He, whose fourth child cost him 600 000. The day after the fine notice arrived, he carried 600 000 to the Family Planning Commission in a plastic knit bag. The poor have to cheat their way to big families. Back in the days of the People’s communes, the peasants were tightly regimented. They had to ask for days off to go to market and needed written authorisation to leave the area. Now, you go where you want, no questions asked. They go out of town to repair umbrellas, resole shoes, peddle vegetables, rent basement rooms or set up tents at bridgeheads, and they can have as many babies as they want. Officials impregnate their mistresses – that needs no explanation. It’s only public servants with little money and even less courage who toe the line.

  If what you say is true, then the policy of family planning exists in name only.

  No, he said. The policy is in place. Because that’s the only way
they can legally collect fines.

  Well, then, let the people have their babies. Why go to Yuan Sai’s surrogate-mothers centre?

  You must be so caught up in your career, old uncle, you don’t know what’s going on around you. He smiled. The rich are supposed to have lots of money, but there aren’t many like the King of Trash, who’s so free with his money. For most people, the more they have the stingier they get. They want a son to inherit their riches, but not at the cost of a steep fine. So they hire a surrogate mother to get out of paying a fine. And most rich folks, the upper crust, are around your age, so when the man decides to try, he has to look somewhere other than his wife.

  So take a mistress.

  Of course, a lot of them do, sometimes more than one, but more common are men who are henpecked and hate being inconvenienced. They are Uncle Yuan’s clients.

  The sight of the little pink building that housed the offices of the bullfrog farm and of the golden halls of the Fertility Goddess Temple across the river gave me a bad feeling. I thought back to that recent morning after returning from a toilet visit at the health centre to an extraordinary bedtime drama with Little Lion.

  You don’t have a son, do you, Old Uncle? Flathead’s son asked me.

  I didn’t answer.

  It’s not right for a special man like you not to have a son. You know that, don’t you? It’s actually a sort of sin. As Mengzi said: Of the three forms of unfilialness, not having an heir is the worst.

  . . . After holding it in all night, I feel much better after relieving myself. I could use some more sleep, but Little Lion is getting frisky, and that hasn’t happened in a long time . . .

  You must have a son, old uncle. This isn’t just about you, but for all of Northeast Township. Uncle Yuan has suggested many ways you could manage this, but a sexual surrogate is the best. The surrogate women are all beautiful, healthy, unmarried college graduates with terrific genes. You can stay with one until she’s pregnant with your child. It’s not cheap, at least two hundred thousand yuan. Of course, if you want the very best for your son, you can give her the most nutritious food and, if you’re so inclined, a personal bonus. The greatest danger is that an extended period of living together could produce an emotional attachment, and what was only pretend could turn into something real, which in turn would affect your marriage. That’s why I think your wife won’t let you get away with this.