We talked deep into the night. She recounted the story of our
family and begged me to write down these memories before time
obliterated all. 'Our entire family suffered when your Niang entered
our home. The spell she cast over your Father was like that of the
fox-devil of our ancient folklore. Besides her youth and beauty, he
was probably in awe of her foreign blood. Remember, he grew up in the
French concession during an era which was unique in China. We are all
victims of history. '
   Before we left that night, Aunt Baba said she had a present for us.
She rummaged for quite a while through the contents of her old trunk
and finally extracted from the lining of her winter coat a neatly
folded envelope. On opening it I saw that it was an old American
100-dollar bill which she must have hoarded for at least thirty years.
For a long while we remained silent, afraid that words might shatter
the magic of this moment beyond joy and sorrow.
   The next day, I took Aunt Baba back to our hotel, where she enjoyed
her first bath for many years. Our designated tour guide, a Party
member, regarded her with contempt. At that time, an unofficial policy
existed in China which divided people into four classes. Each class
was treated accordingly. First class were the white tourists,
especially if they were rich North Americans. Second class were the
overseas Chinese who could speak Chinese. I belonged to this category.
We were dealt with as returning heroes who would provide financial
support for a new economic structure in China. Third class were the
hua qiao (American-born ethnic Chinese) whose parents had emigrated
before 1949 and who could not speak Chinese, such as Bob. They were
attended to with a mixture of mild contempt and overt honour, the
balance being swung by the degree of their prosperity and professional
achievements. The general assumption was that anyone from America was
probably rich and well connected. Fourth class were the hundreds of
millions of native Chinese such as Aunt Baba.  Her clothing and
demeanour easily earmarked her. (pp.224-225)

   I asked her if she regretted staying behind in Shanghai.
   Her answer was an unequivocal no.  'It has bee bad here.  All those
campaigns and struggle meetings.  The savagery of the Cultural
Revolution.  Poverty, hardship and fear.  Quite honestly though, all
the miseries put together were more tolerable than living under the
same roof as your Niang.  I am content with 粗茶淡飯 cu cha dan fan
(coarse tea and plain rice).
    'I often think of life as a deposit of time.  We are each
allocated so many years, just like a fixed sum in a bank.  When
twenty-four hours have passed I have spent one more day.  I read in
the People's Daily that the average life expectancy for a Chinese
woman is seventy-two.  I am already seventy-four years old.  I spent
all my deposits two years ago and am on bonus time.  Every day is
already a gift.  What is there to complain of?  (p.225)

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