Returning to Jingzhou | Changming Yuan

This piece ‘Returning to Jingzhou,’ is an excerpt from Changming Yuan’s novel The Tuner

After spending more than a week with her parents in Songzi, Hua was supposed to join you today for a nine-day secret honeymoon tour to Shennongjiao, Zhangjiajie and the Phoenix City. But circumstances forced her to return to Zhuhai to accommodate her sister-in-law’s family, which was scheduled to leave Sydney for a three-day stay at her home. To receive them on time, Hua had her brother drive her to Maple Grovel Hotel in Jingzhou, where she would stay overnight to catch the earliest train on the following day.

Right after she checked in and put down her luggage in Room 215, you sneaked in and gave her a big hug. As it was almost dinner time, you left the hotel and went to Wanda Plaza by bus, which was only a block away from your mother’s home.

“Today, it’s your turn to play the host,” Hua said.

“Why?” you asked. You had mutually agreed that she would act as the payer whenever the two of you were outside.

“Just in case we should be seen eating together by acquaintances, you old fool. There’re so many of our schoolmates and relatives, such as Kang and Cao, living in this district.”

“What would be the odds of that happening? But I’ll pay the bill this time anyway.”

Sitting opposite each other, you chatted like two old schoolmates rather than passionate lovers. Hua first mentioned how proud her father was when he told the guests that the ice wine they were drinking was a rare gift from you for his 89^th birthday. She then recalled how he, as the former deputy director of the Cultural Department of Songzi County, played a decisive role in making Songzi’s Peking Opera Troupe nationally famous around 1980. Since he was a cultural official throughout his working life, you believed, he would feel proud and delightful if Hua told him how she had become the central figure in so many works of poetry and prose written and published in English.

“No way. If I really did, he would beat me black and blue for being a bad wife,” Hua turned down your suggestion resolutely.

After dinner, you took a long walk on Qu Yuan Memorial Park. While marveling at the ten meter tall granite statue of the literary giant, you told Hua that Qu was not only the first great poet in Chinese history, but also the first great “romantic” author in world literature, as you had defined the term in your dissertation nearly thirty years before. Being your most famous ancient fellow native of Yingdu, the capital of the huge Kingdom of Chu, now called Jingzhou, Qu was recognized by the UN as one of the world’s three greatest cultural celebrities. Most noteworthy was the fact that he was the only poet for whom a major national festival had been annually celebrated for more than two thousand years. In the West, even Homer, who had supposedly authored the Iliad and the Odyssey about a few hundred years before Qu, was never commemorated in such a way throughout history.

“You mean the Dragon Boat’s Festival?” Hua asked.

“Yep,” you confirmed. “Originated from our common native place, the festival is a de facto China’s Poet’s Day, which represents a unique historical-cultural tradition in the human world. This fact alone shows that among all nations on Earth, only we Chinese people have paid so much tribute to poets.”

“Little wonder you wanted us to take a walk here.”

“Perhaps, that’s also why there’ve been so many good poets produced in this part of the ancient kingdom. Have you heard of the three Yuan brothers from Gong-An?” you asked.

“Nah! You know I have done little reading in history or literature.”

“They’re among the most accomplished and influential poets and essayists throughout the Ming Dynasty. Living only about twenty miles away from here, they happened to be my ancestors’ relatives.”

“Really? There must’ve been some literary genes running in your blood!”

“Not really. Just a coincidence. That’s why I’ve never mentioned this to anybody, not even to my German supervisor at the UBC when he asked me if we’re related. But the problem is, though, my Chinese poems are never appreciated in our native land the way my English poetry is in the English speaking world. Very ironical, isn’t it?”

“That’s because you’ve been westernized inside, like a banana boy.”

“On the contrary, I’m an English author with a typical Chinese cultural personality.”

“How can you prove you’re still Chinese inside?”

“There’re two simple but very efficacious ways.”

“One is…?”

“I count money in Chinese, not in English. This testing method is something I personally designed. As I’ve observed, those who count money in Chinese also think in Chinese. And the same is true with those counting money in English, Japanese or any other language. That’s to say, people would think and count their money only in their mother tongue, the language they feel most comfortable with.”

“An interesting point! What’s your second way to prove you’re a true Chinese guy inside?”

“To me, Chinese women are more attractive than any women from other racial-cultural backgrounds. This test might be a bit too personal, but it serves well to illustrate me as an ‘egg’ rather than a ‘banana’.”

“You’ve lost me. I know a ‘banana’ refers to those Asian Americans, Canadians or Australians who’re westernized inside though their skin is yellowish, like your two sons, or my grandchildren. But what’s an ‘egg’?”

“Well, this is also a term I invented. I used it in a well-received poem to refer to any word, anything or anybody that functions outwardly as a western category, but is Chinese inside.”

“Like what?”

“In English, there’re words like ‘casino,’ ‘tofu,’ ‘kungfu,’ ‘zen’ or ‘kowtow,” which have a Chinese origin.”

“I see, but how you, or any other human, can be an egg?”

“My addiction to you is the best proof, isn’t it?”

“Are you accusing me of being a bad drug?”

“I mean you’re a blindingly beautiful Chinese woman to me.”

After returning to her hotel, you took a joint bath and made love to your hearts’ content. For you, this was the first solid penetration you had been able to attain since your 66^th birthday. When you finished the process and came down from her body, you told Hua that in the middle of ejaculation you had felt her contraction more strongly than ever before.

“Perfect timing, huh?”

“The very most soul-melting moment in my life!”

As if to reinforce your happiness, Hua asked you what the best year of life was. Without needing to think, you told her immediately that it was 2023. Although there were still two months left, you knew you had already achieved the most in all three significant aspects of life this year. Economically, by producing two text books for Yue’s followers, you had made more money than in any previous year; artistically, on August 29^th, you had your first English novel formally accepted for publication in 2025. This book was your most meaningful creation because it was based on your true love experiences with Hua.

“What’s your third accomplishment?” Hua asked eagerly.

“Emotionally, I’ve had so many honey days with you, and much more to come in the future. As a result, my soul has become complete.”

After giving you three big congratulatory kisses, Hua asked you what you worst year of life was.

“It was no other than 1980”, you told Hua without any hesitation. At the beginning of the year, you were dispatched to the 717^th Institute, a navy institute located in a hilly village only a few mountains away from Mayuhe, where you were to work as a translator. But before you recieved your notice, everyone, including your teachers, classmates and you yourself, had believed that as a top performer or “Red Professional” you would most probably be assigned to work in Jiao Tong University as an ESL teacher. This unexpected assignment destroyed all your self-expectations and turned all your previous efforts into a joke instantly. Since that moment, you became a die-hard pessimistic cynic, always keeping to yourself.

“No wonder you stopped contacting us old zhiqing comrades after graduating from university.”
“I was too depressed to socialize with anyone.”

“Perfectly understandable. What else happened to you in that year?”

“I know you don’t like Yiming,” you said, “but she was the cause to make me suffer though in a different way.”

“Actually I’ve often wondered how you had developed a relationship with a girl already engaged with another man.”

While staying in the Institute hostel, you recalled, you met Yiming, who had just graduated from Shanghai Second Medical College and come to work as an obstetrician at the Institute clinic. Seeing such a beautiful and intelligent girl, you flipped over her and, as you began to chat, you learned that you two had a lot in common. For instance, she finished her high school the same year as you, and had very similar experiences before attending university in Shanghai. The Youth Station where she had stayed was just opposite Mayuhe, with only the Yangtze River in between. Like you, she should also have been assigned a post in Shanghai upon graduation but had to accept her current job under the government’s policy of “Returning to where one is from.” Moreover, she was not only as interested in music and literature as you were, but she could even recite many classic poems and sing really well. As a student of humanities, you felt ashamed that you had much less literary knowledge than she did. One day, after accompanying her on your accordion, you gave her a Chinese poem, in which you expressed your affection for her in a highly implicit way.

“Aha, that’s your lollipop!” Hua cut in, her words reminding you how you once described the poem she had received from Ping.

But the lollipop soon turned out to be sour, rather than sweet, you explained. The following evening, you invited Yiming for a short hike after supper. As you walked along the same stream flowing through your Institute, she told you that she fully understood what you had really wanted to say in your poem, but she felt deeply sorry that she couldn’t “accept your love,” because she had already committed herself to one of her fellow youth comrades. Despite her polite rejection, you didn’t feel truly despaired, because you believed that you still had the right as well as the chance to defeat her fiancé before her wedding day. She reiterated that though she did love you, she could never marry you. For the next three months or so, you met privately as often as circumstances allowed. Except your roommates, those around you had no idea about how fast your relationship was developing. Within a couple of weeks, you became so attracted to each other that you kissed for nearly two hours the first time you held her in your arms. After that, she cried almost each time you stayed together and talked about your futures. All she said was, “It’s kismet, but too late. Just too late!”

You thought of many hidden reasons for her refusal to marry you, but she kept silent about her fiancé. It was not until the summer of 2007, when you met her again after twenty seven years of separation, that you learned about her apprehension regarding his threats. From her words and deeds alike, you were sure back then that she loved you much more than she did Hong. On several occasions, you were still French-kissing each other when he was only steps away from her dorm. You certainly could have slept with her, but you wanted to reserve sex for your wedding night. So, you didn’t go further than kissing and fondling.

“You kissed her really that long?” Hua asked.

“Definitely! At least two times I did when circumstances allowed,” you answered. “As for the reason why she refused to change her heart, I believe she’s too bound to Hong because of their engagement.”

“She sounded like a weird woman. Her story’s fishy though.”

“I never really understand her, and I’ve long since given up my effort to understand any women.”

“Including me?”

“Of course, a woman is always there for a man only to love or avoid, never to understand.”

“What did she love most about you then?”

“My intelligence and talents, I think.”

“She’s different from me. Just go on.”

Encouraged by Hua, you elaborated on how Yiming had been deeply impressed by your smartness and versatility. While you were preparing for your entrance examination for the post-graduate program, she helped you by preparing a eleven pages long of note about “Marxism-Leninism and Mao Zedong Thought,” which was one of the four compulsive subjects. Within several hours, on a single morning, you managed to remember all of them by heart. She was so surprised that she bravoed you as the smartest guy she had ever known in person. No less was she impressed when she learned that you had taught yourself how to play accordion and many other instruments. Moreover, she was highly appreciative of your Chinese calligraphy and writing skills to what she described as your “unyielding spirit.”

“I would say you’ve got a challenging mindset,” Hua said. “That’s something similar though, very manly.”

“I like your observation better! It’s more accurate, and more positive as well.”

“What then? In detail …”

“Are you really ready for it? I’m going to make a confession to you.”

“Another dark secret of yours?”

“Yeah, it’s long overdue, but not hurting anymore, nor does it have to do with our relationship now.”

“Cut to the chase, I cannot wait to hear it!”

To give Hua a bit more background, you recalled how you had been sent back to the village, which was even bleaker than Mayuhe, where you had to do the cooking by yourself, something you had always hated to do. For you, the only meaning of your life up until then seemed to be your encounter with Yiming at the Institute. But when your relationship with her became hopeless, you felt like falling into a trap set up by fate itself. Although you had distinguished yourself as an outstanding student in Shanghai, you were doomed to live in a remote village. With all your young ambitions thwarted overnight, you began to hate the way the social ladder had been ruthlessly taken away from young and ambitious people like you.

The time for revenge came when you took your postgraduate entrance examinations back in Songzi. On the general political test, you did it well, thanks to Yiming’s helpful notes. The other three subjects were all designed for English majors. For the long close test on the English syntax and usage, you had enough knowledge and training, but for the cross translations between English and Chinese, you had difficulty even understanding the two source texts, one being an excerpt from a heavily jargoned essay on Shakespeare, written originally in English, the other a passage from the Chinese classic novel The Dream of the Red Chamber. Knowing nobody in the entire county could give you any academic assistance, you begged the chief invigilator, a subordinate of your father’s, to allow you to submit your answers early next morning because you wished to “copy all the papers for future studies in case of failure to be accepted.”

Returning home, you checked the dictionaries for all the new words you needed to use or understand. As a top student, you had always hated cheating in school, but this time you had two strong reasons to do so. One was the urgent need to do justice to yourself and improve your own fate. Since the government had unfairly deprived you of your only opportunity to stay in Shanghai as a university teacher or to work in Beijing as a translating official for the then Sixth Mechanics Ministry of the central government. You had every right in taking something back even if it meant you had to bend a few rules. On the other hand, you wanted to leave the Institute at any cost, because it would be unbearable to see Yiming marrying or sleeping with another man under your nose. A couple of months later, you received a notification from Tianjin Normal University for the oral examination, which you passed quite easily, not through cheating, but as a result of coincidence, for you happened to have read and heard a couple of passages being examined on. That was how you left the institute and Yiming at the same time.

“So, you’re not such an outstanding student in Shanghai as we all thought back then,” Hua said.

“I actually was. You knew, as one of the last ‘worker-peasant-soldier” university students of the day, I was really an outstanding performer in the whole program; it was the government’s hateful policy that had forced me back to the drawing board,” you explained.

“I understand that, but did you tell this secret to anyone before?”

“Of course nobody, except my wife, but I didn’t confess this wrong-doing until the day I officially obtained my PhD in Canada.”

“Why so late?”

“Just to prove to myself that I really had all the academic strengths to get what I’d wanted without doing any cheating!”

“It’s so you! You did justice to yourself…”

“By refusing to marry me, Yiming did thus play a decisive role in my life,” you added before Hua finished. Indeed, without your strong determination to escape from her, you would undoubtedly have continued working in the institute or begun to pursue your graduate studies in another university at a later time.

“1980 was the toughest year to you, though the best one to my dad.”

“Yes, in that single year, I suffered three worst blows in my lifetime: losing all my hopes for a bright future, falling out of love with my first date, and committing a shameful wrong-doing that made me suffer from a guilty sense for many years.”

“Fortunately, you survived.”

“So I did! And all is well that ends well, especially with you in my arms as in my heart now!”

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Author’s note: This story is inspired by and devoted to Helena Qi Hong.

Yuan Changming edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include 17 chapbooks, 12 Pushcart nominations for poetry and 2 for fiction besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline and 2079 other literary outlets across 49  countries. A poetry judge for Canada’s 2021 National Magazine Awards, Yuan began writing and publishing fiction in 2022, with his first (hybrid) novel Mabakoola: Paradise Regained forthcoming in 2025.