Free Monkey Hunting by Cristina Garcia Page B

him. Their talk turned instead to the war that had broken out against Spain. Carlos Manuel de Céspedes, a respected landowner, had freed his slaves so they could join the struggle. Others were following suit. Chen Pan recalled the forced conscriptions in China, the young men sent far to the north, to lands of interminable winters and roaring bears.
    His friends applauded the feats of Captain Liborio Wong, the Chinese botanical doctor who’d helped recapture Bayamo during the early weeks of the war. Of the bravery of Commander Sebastián Sian, who they’d heard had killed three Spaniards—
pa! pa!
pa!—
with the back of his sword. They imagined themselves riding into battle on stallions bridled in gold. Of fashioning drinking cups from enemy skulls, as their ancestors had done against Yüeh-chih, the defeated king of Han times. Of perfecting their shooting until the very birds would be afraid to fly.
    But not a single one joined the fighting.
    “The great thing isn’t fame or fortune but stamina,” Arturo Fu Fon said. “In Cuba, it’s enough just to survive.”
    For ten days Chen Pan hardly ate or slept. He thought of leaving the island altogether. Of what use was he if he couldn’t save a helpless child? Chen Pan had heard of other
chinos
sailing ships around Indonesia, working the mines in South Africa, building the railroads that crisscrossed North America. Hard work that would leave no time for mourning.
    At least in Cuba, it was warm everywhere, and he knew it was impossible to starve. Chen Pan reached down and felt the muscles in his legs. He’d gotten much too soft in Havana, fussing endlessly with delicate things in his shop. Could he regain his forest strength? The necessary sinew for battle?
    On the eleventh day, Chen Pan put Lucrecia in charge of the Lucky Find. He strode over to Calle Muralla, purchased fifty machetes, and hired a two-horse cart and driver. Then, against Lucrecia’s objections, Chen Pan headed east, toward the war, to deliver the machetes to Commander Sian.

Middle Kingdom
    Chen Fang
    SHANGHAI (1924)
    In the mountain village where I grew up, my mother smoked opium. She’d grown accustomed to the money my father, Lorenzo Chen, used to send her from Cuba. My two older sisters married early and left for their husbands’ homes. They are traditional women, obedient to their men and eldest sons. They have bound feet and never traveled far.
    I am not like my sisters. When I was born, the midwife, soaked to her elbows in birthing blood, called out: “Another mouth for rice!” My mother was so distraught that she dropped me on my head. My brow swelled and I took a fever, but still I lived. The same evening, my grandmother died. Mother thought me an evil presence and refused to nurse me. Instead I was given oxen milk to drink. For this reason I grew so obstinate.
    My oldest sister was just three when our father left China for good. First Sister said she remembered how his hair smelled of oranges. Father had returned from his travels for the Full Month celebration after my birth, and a pyramid of oranges stood tall in my honor. Mother had dressed me in red-and-gold silk and hosted a feast that lasted three days. She’d told Father that I was a boy.
    Every villager went along with the deceit. A third daughter in as many years certainly meant bad luck. But no one wanted my father retracting his promise to build a new well for the village. I, of course, remember nothing of him. Father returned to Cuba when I was four months old. By then he had taken a second wife, a soup seller he’d met in the streets of Canton. Together they left China on a merchant ship.
    I had a great deal of freedom as a child. Mother dressed me as a boy, treated me as a boy, and soon everyone seemed to forget that I was a girl. She did not bind my feet, and I was allowed to play with the rough boys who caught wild bees in the fields. I did not help in the kitchen. I did not learn how to sew. And only I, of my sisters,