Free Avenue of Eternal Peace by Nicholas Jose

in the army, concerning one of the Kuomintang generals. Mother couldn’t explain the letter to me. But in the year of mourning a relation of father’s came on a visit and took me aside, assuming I knew or wanting to tell me, I’m not sure. He was father’s half-brother, one of two sons of the Kuomintang general’s two wives. Father was the son of the concubine, the “second” wife. Perhaps that had something to do with it. Or perhaps he did have convictions after all. Anyway, when he guessed that the Communists would win, father switched sides. He was a young soldier. By the time the general was executed, father had cut all ties with the Kuomintang and was trying to line up with the Communists in the capital. His half-brother made his peace with the Communists more openly, more abjectly, saving his face and in the long run his property. My uncle’s rich today. The separation between our families is complete. My father’s whole life was shaped by guilt for betraying his forebears, and fear that the Communists would find out where he’d come from. A counter-revolutionary. The letter must have come just when he thought he’d got away with it, to remind him never to lower his guard. He never even told his wife. She doesn’t know all the details even now, doesn’t care to know. That’s why our family had nothing. He played it by the book. He brought no attention on us. My luck must have seemed like a curse to him. When he called me “Good son” at the end, he was saying that I could be a completely different person. And so I am. I feel sorry for him. There’s more than one kind of casualty. The past walks beside us, even if we don’t always understand its language.’
    He turned his head to one side and his grin was visible.
    â€˜Tomorrow.’
    5
    When Wally woke, the rain was still falling steadily to thaw the earth. Water drops glistened on Mother Lin’s silvered hair when she came in from the kitchen, crying out as her muddy feet nearly slipped from under her. Eagle yawned, stretched and hopped up. His mother already had bowls of rice porridge to set on the table.
    â€˜Nearly seven-thirty,’ Eagle scolded the Doctor with a prod. ‘Up, up, up.’
    Wally rolled out of a baby’s sleep and pulled himself to a sitting position. Rubbing his stubbly chin and matted hair, he stared out into the shining rain and wondered aloud, ‘My meeting with Director Kang is at eight-thirty. I can’t be late.’
    â€˜Quick. Eat. There’s no time to wash.’ Like a magician, Eagle pulled from a trunk an enormous plastic cape.
    The scientist in Wally believed it impossible to keep dry while riding a bicycle through pouring rain. Eagle assured him there would be no problem. Only button up the hood and pedal slowly, keeping your knees under the cape.
    Wobbling, disguised, the foreigner flowed out among the bicycles, plastic coverings, mire, umbrellas and frantic bells. He couldn’t look up or his hood would fall back. He sliced through sheets of water following—he hoped—the curves of the route planned. The Yellow River of traffic, soaked, spattered, jostled to defeat the elements.
    Taller than whomever the raincoat was designed for, Wally was sopping wet from the knees down, and generally bedraggled, when he arrived late at the meeting room trailing the dripping raincoat. Mrs Gu rushed forward sympathetically as the Doctor bowed his apology. By the time he was settled in the armchair, he had picked up that there was no one in the room besides himself and Mrs Gu.
    â€˜I’m sorry but Director Kang has gone.’
    â€˜Gone!’ Faint-heartedly he looked at his watch.
    â€˜He’s gone to Chicago.’
    â€˜That’s ridiculous.’ Wally was only fifteen minutes late.
    â€˜Very ridiculous,’ laughed Mrs Gu girlishly. ‘He will be back in ten days. The University of Chicago has awarded him an