Widow of Que-Moy

By Jeff Chen

Widow of Que-Moy weaves the romance and tragedy of two young
lovers on Que-Moy, an island adjacent to Mainland China, during the
tumultuous confrontations between Chiang Kai-Sheks nationalist regime
and Chairman Maos revolutionaries.
Draped with the exotic Chinese culture, this romantic and passionate
tale will entice you from the very beginning, while offering a concise
account of this often neglected chapter in world history.
The fluid writing style of the author will keep you turning the pages
of this historical drama, as plots of political treachery, sabotage on
the open seas, a merciless attack on a defenseless island, and a daring
commando raid provides the dramatic finale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 20, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462816071

Jeff Chen

Jeff Chen is a writer from Seattle, Washington. He also makes crossword puzzles for the New York Times and other major publications. In previous careers, he was a mechanical engineer listed on eight US patents, and then co-founded a pharmaceutical company, Acucela Inc. Ultraball is his debut novel. You can visit Jeff at www.jeffchenwrites.com.

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Copyright © 2009 by Jeff Chen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Prelude

PART ONE

Shanghai, 1948

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

PART TWO

Kin-Men, 1958

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

PART THREE

Kin-Men, 1968

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Epilogue

To my parents

Major General and Mrs. Chien-Kung Chen

And! to my wife Dr. Lily Chen

Acknowledgments

I WANT TO THANK Mr. Jeremy Solomon, president of First Books, and Ms. Virginia Linnman, my book project manager, for offering me the opportunity to publish my first novel. It’s not an easy journey for an immigrant from Taiwan to attempt the task of writing a full-length piece of fiction in English—my second language. I did it because I believe people should hear the story of the Widow of Que-Moy.

It happened during the Chinese Civil War from 1946 to 1949 between two powerful Chinese leaders—Communist Chairman Mao Tze-Tung and Nationalist Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek. The bloody feud between these two men not only shaped modern-day China; but has had long-lasting impact on world peace today. The Americans were and still are heavily involved in the China-Taiwan standoff.

Mao, Chiang, Eisenhower, and some of the characters around them—such as Chiang Ching-Kuo, Lin Biao, Yeh Fei, and Dulles—are represented in the novel as real persons, but their actions within the pages of th is book are purely from my imagination.

I wish to thank two very prominent Chinese-American journalists and dear friends, Mr. Norman Fu and Mr. Benedict Hsu, for reading the first draft and making many valuable suggestions.

I embarked on this writing project because of two golfer friends and fellow physicists, Dr. Harold Szu and Dr. Shou-Sen S zu. I told them the Widow story over a golf game break. They loved it and, more importantly, coma need me that I had the talent to turn it into a novel.

I want to specifically recognize my cousin, Zi-Huang for his beautiful cover art design. I believe and I sincerely hope that he will become a big-time artist one day.

I want to thank Chris Bisgard, my book designer at First Books* for his many ingenious touches to the final layout that helped to give this book the needed oriental flavor.

Finally, I wish to thank many of my relatives and friends who have loyally supported me dunng the months of pecking at the keyboard. They read the synopsis; discussed with me the characters; offered encouraging remarks; brought me my favorite foods; and did many other heart-warming things. To Tony/Diana/ George, Nick/Joyce, Joyce/Tony, Jon/Judy/Bing/Ian, Zi-Huang/ Shu-Zhen/Chi-Chi, Mary/Beth, Marco/Peggy, Eric/Stella, Diane/Howard, Scott/Jean, Tim/Drey, Sam/Susie, Charlie/ Chns, Tom/Alice, Carl/Lisa, Jackson/Ming, James/Orchid, Bing/ Lien, Kai-Duh/Ru-M in, Wayne/Winnie, James/Jeanette, David/Grace, James/Hai-Ping, Wei-Po/Jennifer, Jerry/Grace, Hong, Snowball, Hua-Feng, my five lovely goddaughters—Margaret/Wendy/Jane/Elaine and Glenda, and the Rho-Psi brothers and sisters—I offer gratitude from the bottom of my heart.

Author’s Note

QUE-MOY IS one of the most intriguing and controversial places in the world, yet very few people know about it.

It is located off the coast of Communist China, inside a mouth-shaped bay and no more than a mile away from the mainland at the closest point; yet it belongs to Nationalist China on Taiwan, more than a hundred miles away. The two Chinese

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governments have been fighting against each other for the past eighty years. To call this tiny nationalist island a choking bone in the communist’s throat is not an exaggeration. Its survival is nothing short of a miracle.

Que-Moy is a small island, encompassing approximately forty-five square miles with very few natural resources; yet it has housed more than one hundred thousand soldiers and fifty thousand civilians for years.

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It has miles and miles of beautiful tropical sandy beaches; but no one in his right mind would wade in its crystal blue waters. There are countless land mines planted many years ago by a garrison that unfortunately did not keep an accurate record of their locations. The islanders believe that the communist frogmen knew the beach better than the nationalist garrison.

The island received over a half-million artillery shells during the infamous 1958 August War of Cannons—twenty-seven times more than what Japanese-occupied Iwo Jima received during World War II: yet according to the official documents, very few casualties seemed to result from the savage bombardment.

The young male graduates from the Taiwanese universities dreaded serving their compulsory military services on this island because of the odd-day artillery shelling that lasted almost twenty years; however, the year I served on Que-Moy as an Air Forces Second Lieutenant was one of most memorable experiences in my life.

Frankly, I was not very thrilled with the island when I first stepped onto its sandy beach in 1968 amidst the frightening shelling. Then I met the Widow of Que-Moy. She not only offered me much-needed hot water so that I did not have to take cold showers during the chilly winter, she changed my perspective of the island forever.

Because she confided in me her sad story…

I waited almost thirty years to write about her. But then it is better late than never.

Prelude   58462-CHEN-layout.pdf

August 23, 1958 was just another typical hot summer day at the Nationalist Chinese-held Que-Moy (or Kin-Men in the modern Mandarin dialect) Island off the southeastern coast of mainland Communist China. A few scattered clouds adorned the crystal blue sky Occasional breezes from the mainland brought ripples to the calm waters of the Amoy (or Shia-Men) Bay Together, the bay and the island resembled a tiger’s jaw chewing on a piece of bone.

In the late afternoon, a fleet of fishing boats with patched canvas sails began to leave the small island harbors, ready for their nighttime harvests in the Taiwan Strait.

As the sun started to descend beyond the mountains, farmers with palm-leaf hats and sweat-soiled clothes streamed out of the sheltering huts. They began to irrigate the thirsty fields using precious water pumped from the artificial lakes. A few mechanized plows were lazily tilling the shallow ditches between rows of vegetables, leaving clouds of dust in their trails.

Mary Yao-Mei Lin, a refugee from the mainland nearly ten years before, was at the Kin-Chen Junior High School teaching an English class. Once in a while, she glanced out of the dusty classroom windows toward the hazy mainland, lost in private thoughts of her peculiar fate—her kidnapping at gunpoint from her luxurious mansion in Shanghai, her miraculous survival from a ship’s explosion, and her subsequent life on this forlorn island of Que-Moy. She had been destined to marry the dashing and romantic Lieutenant Mike Brightman and yet, she ended up with an illiterate, but devoted fisherman, Jen-Kuo Lin as her husband.

Furrows of sorrow and solitude began to appear on her once-young and beautiful face. She glanced at the western sky. My dear Mike is now happily married to an American lady with two lovely daughters. Does he still think of me in the same way I think of him in my dreams? Her eyes misted. Then her thoughts drifted slowly, and not without guilt, to the other man in her life. Her large expressive brown eyes blinked as she thought about her fisherman husband. The Communists had captured him not long ago. What was Jen-Kuo Lin, her warm and loving husband, doing at this moment? Was he laboriously scribbling another love letter to her? Mary smiled as she thought about his first letter. She knew that the Communists had promised to treat her husband fairly, as long as she kept her end of the bargain. Jen-Kuo had been offered a job as a porter at the Shia-Men City railroad station with a meager salary and a small apartment. So he was safe for now. But still, she could not help but be worried. It had been nine months now since she had reluctantly agreed to spy for the Communists in order to save her husband’s life. In another three months, he would be freed.

She raised her eyes to the sky and silently prayed to the almighty Buddha that her husband would return to her. A week before, she had made a solemn promise at the village temple that she would devote the rest of her life to Jen-Kuo if he returned home safely. She would read history books and poems to him, even if he might not comprehend all the intricate knowledge she brought into his world.

Then the image of a third man entered her mind, an image of a deeply suntanned and handsome face with dark expressive eyes. She knew in her heart that he was a dangerous man, yet he was also fatally attractive. It was A-Deh, the communist frogman, who had brought her the news of her husband’s capture. It was also A-Deh who persuaded her to spy for the Communists against her newly adopted home, Que-Moy Island. She knew that he wanted her; she could sense his intense desire whenever they were together. She had resisted him with all her willpower so far, but how long could she keep him at bay?

She shook her head and took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the curious and expectant looks from her young pupils. She blushed and turned her attention back to her class.

In the barracks adjacent to her school, a lone bugle sounded to signal the end of the day. Garrison soldiers collapsed and scrambled to hide in the shade. They were exhausted after their seemingly endless drills under the unforgiving sun. Their dark green uniforms were soaked by sweat and caked with the brown mud from rolling and crawling on the ground. Some of them began to doze off and dream about dinner. The sweet fragrance of food from the mess kitchen began to permeate the air.

None of the one hundred and forty thousand soldiers and civilians on the island would expect that the tranquility and peace of this semi-tropical island fortress was to be shattered soon.

+  +  +

Less than two miles away on the communist coast, thousands of artillery soldiers, with bare backs, many in shorts, toiled in the unbearable heat to load the heavy shells into the massive barrels. Surveyors at the well-camouflaged surveillance posts made final calibrations from their vantage point. One by one, they gave the battery commanders the hand signals for readiness. Strict radio silence had been observed to prevent the nationalist electronic listening stations from picking up any unusual activities.

General Yeh Fei, the supreme commander in charge of the artillery attack, paced impatiently in the cramped command post, perched high on Lotus Mountain. He was a short man, only five feet, six inches; yet he exuded a raw and ruthless power that had earned him the nickname of short devil. He must have glanced at the wall clock fifty times during the previous hour. Every once in a while, he would peek cautiously through the open slot in front of the concrete bunker at the small island of Que-Moy across Shia-Men Bay. The target was so close that he did not even bother to use the high power military binoculars.

The tiny island seemed to be so peaceful and quiet. He could see the smoke from cooking fires at those barracks where his artilleries were aimed. The Nationalists were not suspecting anything. Why should they, General Yeh mused to himself. He had performed a military miracle. His officers and soldiers had managed to move more than five hundred cannons and at least one million rounds of shells into position—all beneath the noses of the Nationalists and their ever-present reconnaissance airplanes commissioned by the imperialistic Americans and the CIA. A smirk appeared on his face. Tonight his name would go down in the history of Chinese warfare as the master engineer of the surprise cannon attack. Many lives would surely be lost. Large numbers of houses would be destroyed and burned. He mused about the notion that he would probably be dubbed with the unsavory title of ‘butcher of Que-Moy.’ So be it, he sighed. He watched the clock again. It was twenty-five past six. Another five minutes …

Nearby, in the communication room, Major Lee Bing, a personal assistant to General Yeh, was just as nervous. He was watching the red telephone on his desk, ready to grab it at the first ring. He knew only one person in the entire country of China could change the fate of the many innocent people on Que-Moy Island. That would be Chairman Mao Tze-Tung. Major Lee prayed that his great leader would call and cancel the attack. He, too, was watching the clock.

+  +  +

Mary had already dismissed her class and was riding the community bus home. She was tired after a long day. She was gazing aimlessly through the open window at the bay water when a sudden flash of reddish lightning over the horizon caught her attention. She was puzzled at the unusual sight. She squinted to get a better look. Then she heard and felt the mighty thunder.

At 6:30 RM. sharp, the communist artilleries of more than five hundred cannons of various calibers, positioned all around Que-Moy Island, opened fire simultaneously. The deafening roar shook the ground on both shores like an earthquake. On Que-Moy, the leaves trembled in fear and plumes of dust rose from the scorched fields. People and animals froze in their tracks not knowing what had happened until they saw the approaching shower of steel projectiles, accompanied by a requiem of whining whistles. Then it was too late. The slaughter had begun.

The first volley of six thousand shells had a deadly aim. They followed a graceful parabolic trajectory and fell into a secret valley deep inside the bowels of Tai~Wu Mountain. It was precisely where the nationalist Kin-Men Defense Command Headquarters was hidden. Nearly three tons of red-hot shrapnel scattered over an area of less than five acres, turning the area into a hellish killing field.

The three nationalist deputy commanders, one for each branch of the armed forces and all brigadier generals, were strolling casually toward the Green Pavilion—the officers’ dining room, when the first shell landed among them. The battle-hardened generals knew instinctively that they were doomed. They did not even try to run. They smiled at each other and stared at death in defiance. If anyone could have looked into their eyes at that fatal moment, they would have seen the slight traces of sorrow from not having been able to die while directly facing their enemies.

General Chao was killed instantly when a piece of large shrapnel sliced through his waist, nearly cutting him in half. General Chi was peppered with shreds from an explosion less than twenty feet away. Soldiers ran out of the bunkers and risked their lives to retrieve the mangled, yet still breathing commander, a well-respected national hero in World War II. He was rushed to the operating room of an army field hospital nearby. The team of surgeons removed more than thirty fragments from all over his body. After the surgery, he was released to the Intensive Care Unit for observation. One piece of steel no bigger than a fingernail, still inside his intestines, was determined to claim him. General Ch i, who had fired the very first shot against the Japanese Imperial Army in 1937 and had survived numerous fierce attacks on the battlefield, died three days later of a serious internal infection.

The body of General Chang could never be identified. His chief of staff searched all through the night using a hooded flashlight to look through the gory mess left behind. He could only find bone chips and Chang’s shoulder insignia, bloody and in tatters, at the spot where he had last been seen alive.

+  +  +

To the chagrin of the communist artillery commander, General Yeh Fei, the primary target had miraculously escaped the surprise attack. Lieutenant General Chu Sen-Yu, the commander in chief of the nationalist Kin-Men Defense Command, had a late afternoon meeting with a special U.S. Military Assistance and Advisory Group (USMAAG) visitor, Major Mike Brightman—the very man who Mary had been daydreaming about earlier in her classroom. General Chu and his American guest were slightly behind schedule and had asked the three deputy commanders to proceed to the dining room first. Chu and Brightman were at the tunnel exit when the onslaught started.

Many of the nationalist troops were not as lucky. The Twenty-ninth Infantry Division had just transferred from an army base in southern Taiwan to Kin-Men two days earlier, to replace the Forty-fourth Infantry Division. Five thousand travel-weary soldiers were camped in the open fields next to the trenches and bunkers of the outgoing troops.

When the meteorites of red hot metal rained down from the sky, most of the newly arrived soldiers were still in the tents, recuperating from the fatigue of the long voyage. They had no place to hide. Only a handful escaped the bloodbath unscathed.

Mary’s bus ran into a ditch and overturned. She was bruised, but unhurt. She struggled home to discover the horrible death of her father-in-law, crushed by a wooden beam that had fallen on his sick bed. Her village, located too close to an army base, was nearly flattened by the dense shellfire. She realized that the

Communists had tricked her. Worst of all, she was fooled by her new friend, the mysterious communist secret agent—A-Deh Liu, the frogman. Laden with guilt, she threw herself into the gruesome work of a volunteer nurse, despite her own injuries and fatigue.

+  +  +

The surprise attack on August 23, 1958 was just the beginning …

From this fateful day on, the Americans were dragged, unknowingly and unwillingly, into the family feud between the two Chinese regimes. Major Mike Brightman, disgusted by the non-discriminating slaughter of innocent civilians, came up with a simple, but clever scheme to dwarf the vicious communist attack at the end …

The War of Cannons lasted a total of forty-four days. Chairman Mao had to swallow his ego and order the cease-fire because of the intervention from the Americans. Altogether, the communist artillery hurled more than 450,000 shells over an island barely forty-five square miles. Thousands of soldiers and civilians perished. The bombardment averaged ten thousand shells per square mile—twenty-seven times denser than what the Japanese-occupied Iwo Jima received from the American ship guns during World War II.

Chairman Mao vowed in a public speech that he would revisit the island with another bloodbath in ten years. He suggested that the imperialistic Americans stay clear of the island when he returned, lest …

Mao made that devilish promise on october 6, 1958.

PART ONE

Shanghai, 1948

Chapter One   58462-CHEN-layout.pdf

In the summer of 1948, the ancient and mysterious Middle Kingdom—China—was in total chaos. The civil war between the ruling Nationalist party and the revolutionary Communist party was raging out of control. The Americans and the Russians watched the fiasco from the sidelines, each trying to meddle for their own strategic goal to become the leading world superpower.

When World War II ended three years before, China was looking forward to a needed rest and a new beginning. The exhausted soldiers and the wandering refugees returned to their scorched homes and charred grain fields. But instead of recuperation and restoration, the proud descendants of the dragon, as the Chinese would like to call themselves, were soon thrown into another war—a war of the worst kind that pitched neighbor against neighbor, and brother against brother.

This time, it was a bloody feud between two powerful and stubborn men, President Chiang Kai-Shek and Chairman Mao Tze-Tung. They were rivals determined to wipe out each other.

It was amid this chaotic mess that the young Lieutenant Michael Brightman, freshly graduated from West Point Military Academy, arrived in China to serve in the American Consulate Guard in Shanghai. He was totally unprepared for what he would see in this great city—the endless stream of refugees, ragged beggars, greedy wartime speculators, and renegade soldiers in assorted uniforms.

Mike was both shocked and disappointed. This was not at all the magnificent Middle Kingdom that Marco Polo had once described in his travel journals—the land of the ten-thousand-mile Great Wall, the gold-gilded Forbidden City, the garden city of the hundred canals, and the mysterious Silk Road.

Mike had dreamed about visiting those fabled places, but he arrived in China too late. The way the country was falling apart, he might never have a chance to see these places in person. It was truly very sad and downright disgraceful to see the oldest empire in the world turned into a wasteland, without a purpose, just to satisfy the greed and perverted ambition of two dictatorial men—Chiang Kai-Shek and Mao Tze-Tung.

China was always capable of compromise, as its ancient history had proven time after time. The citizens of Shanghai were particularly so. They had lived peacefully with the foreign concessions for over one hundred years. Now they swallowed the transients with tolerance. The civil war was still primarily confined to the northern provinces. Mike was surprised at the business-as-usual attitudes of the Shanghai residents as well as some of h IS own colleagues in the Consulate. The U.S. Government still believed that it could bring peace to the fighting parties. Only history would prove how naïve and wrong it was at the end.

Shanghai has always been a kaleidoscope of art, music, fashion, entertainment, and decadent lifestyles. The tourists and pleasure-seekers had dubbed it The City Without Dark Nights. Mike was like a small boy in a candy store—fascinated, but hopelessly lost. He studied the Chinese language and culture like crazy, hoping to grasp something of value out of the sinking empire.

+  +  +

On a beautiful early summer weekend, Lieutenant Mike Brightman attended the American Consulate annual picnic held at the scenic Tai Lake on the outskirts of Shanghai. It was sunny, somewhat humid, but nevertheless a pleasant day for an outing. The employees of the American Consulate were looking forward to such an occasion. Many of them, like Mike, had not had the chance to visit the countryside of their host country. Tai Lake swarmed with tourists from Shanghai and nearby cities. They looked and felt optimistic because the civil war was still as distant as it could be.

Mike was quietly absorbing the beautiful scenery around him. It was so different from the lakes in his home state of Wisconsin. The willow tree-lined lakeshores were interspersed with ancient pagodas and arched stone bridges across the canals and tributaries. Red tile roofs and beige stucco walls of the summer cottages offered poetic contrast to the green leaves and the pink water lilies.

Mike tried to mentally register the images rather than using a camera. His colleague, John Epstein, a Harvard-educated scholar and one of the most recognized China-hands, was busy explaining to the group about the origins of the various pagodas and temples like he grew up in the neighborhood. Mike never ceased to admire the immense reservoir of knowledge in his mentor and good friend. Epstein was probably more Chinese than most Chinese in this country, so believed Mike.

Everything was picturesque except maybe the crowded boat docks. Mike watched in amusement as the small vendors, carrying their wares in cloth bundles, chased the tourists from the parking lot to the waterfront to peddle cheap souvenirs. Fl íes were everywhere—attacking the fruits, candies, and suspicious-looking dishes in the open food stalls. The few local policemen were wasting their time in herding the ragged beggars and pickpockets away in a never-ending cycle.

Mike’s group of twenty-eight Americans from the Shanghai Consulate, mostly junior staff members, rented a large houseboat that was decorated like a floating imperial palace, with golden glazed tiles, red columns, and antique wood furniture inside the cabin. John Epstein explained to the group that a chair two hundred years old would be called an antique in U.S., but used furniture in China. Everyone laughed at his little joke. They felt more relaxed now sitting on the hand-carved hardwood chairs.

A local Chinese family owned and operated the houseboat. The father, sun-dried and stooped, handled a long wooden oar that also doubled as a rudder at the stern. The unadorned mother cooked in a small kitchen producing an endless flow of delicious hors d’oeuvres. Their daughter, a shy and pretty teenage girl, served the hot tea, cold drinks, and everything else.

The father pushed the boat away from the dock. Mike watched in amazement. He could not believe that a single oar in the hands of a man half h is size could propel a floating palace so effortlessly. They left the crowded waterfront and floated along the shaded shore.

The three single girls on the consulate staff had competed unabashedly for Mike’s attention since they boarded the bus in the early morning. He was flattered at first, but was soon bored.

Chewing bubble gum and sipping soft drinks from thickly rouged lips were not exactly very feminine traits to him. He wanted to talk to John Epstein, but his friend was now explaining Chinese architecture to the group, things in which he was already well tutored. He decided to take a break from the crowd.

He excused himself and went to the dragon-shaped bow. He lit a cigarette. The noon sun was beating harshly on his neck. He wished that he had bought a farmer’s straw hat from one of the vendors on the shore. Why didn’t I? It was only twenty-five cents, he muttered to himself. The hat would mess up my well-groomed hair. Thai was why. He remembered the stupid reason now. He was always proud of his handsome look—a strong nose under a broad forehead, with wavy brown hair, eyes of deep-sea blue, and a set of full lips supported by a square jaw. He possessed all the fine traits of the northern European immigrants who flourished in the state of Wisconsin.

The boat weaved delicately through the water lilies. Large colorful carp swam between the stalks. He could almost touch them as he bent down to watch. Sometimes a hungry bass would leap out of the water to catch an insect for an afternoon snack. The calm lake was occasionally disturbed by the wakes from speeding motorboats in the distance. They should ban those noisy nuisances and introduce American Indian canoes, he thought. Were Indians descendants of the Chinese? They crossed the Bering Strait many years ago and migrated to the North American continent. Or maybe they were descendants of Eskimos. He tried in vain to recall what his history teacher had told him in high school.

The houseboat circled around a small peninsula and approached the entrance of a canal. A couple of smaller, but well—decorated houseboats entered the lake from the man-made river which was lined with wooden houses. He was mentally comparing a multiple-arched stone bridge hung high across the canal with a Roman stone aqueduct when he heard the scream of a young boy.

He turned around and saw what happened. About a hundred yards away, a small pedal boat capsized from the wake of a speeding motorboat that turned too sharply, and threw a young boy overboard. He was struggling and yelling for help.

Without thinking, Mike kicked off his shoes and dived into the murky lake. At about the same time, another figure from a small houseboat nearby also jumped in the water. They were both good swimmers. Mike, with his powerful strokes, reached the drowning boy first. He grabbed the collar of the young boy and tried to keep his head above the water.

The panicky boy was kicking and clawing at Mike. He tried to turn the boy around and so he could put a chokehold on him to avoid becoming entangled.

Are you all right with the boy? A female voice came from behind Mike. Her English was without any accent. He naturally assumed she was someone from his own boat.

I am fine. I just have to keep him from kicking and grabbing me. He is a tough little fellow, Mike replied without looking back. He was busy controlling the boy.

Let me help you with that, the voice spoke again.

She started to say something in Chinese. It must be Betty, the bilingual secretary from the consul general’s office, Mike figured. Her voice was magically soothing. Even he could feel it. The boy calmed down gradually, only coughing from having swallowed too much water earlier.

By now, Mike’s houseboat had approached the scene of the incident. A couple of his friends were reaching their hands out for him and the boy. Mike lifted the boy up and many hands pulled the crying boy onboard. Mike turned around. He was going to help his female colleague, presumably Betty, get back on the boat first.

The n he saw her. It was a young Chinese lady. And she was stunningly beautiful, more beautiful than he could ever have imagined before or describe later. He had seen sunrise over mountains and sunsets over the ocean. He had viewed blue sky from a green meadow and starry nights from a deep forest. But nothing he had ever laid eyes on could match the feeling of beauty he experienced at this very moment. He was speechless.

Later on he would always remember what had captivated him the most at that special moment—her large brown eyes first, and foremost—apart from her other facial features that were equally attractive. Those were eyes that could speak, tease, plead, and love. For now, there was unmistakably a spark of mischief in her eyes, ready to challenge him to another swim race or something else

Mike knew at that fateful moment that in time she was the woman that he would give his life to. He blinked, tried to focus better. She had a fresh and natural complexion because she did not have any make-up on. A strand of wet hair covered the corner of one of her eyes, adding a mysterious touch to her expressive face. He estimated her to be around eighteen years old, may be younger. He could never make out the age of Chinese women.

She smiled at the dazed lieutenant and said in the same soothing tone, Thank you for saving the boy. You are a very brave man. So simple, yet so sweet a compliment—it pierced his heart without mercy. He became her captive, willingly and completely.

Before Mike could gather his wits to answer her, they were distracted by the voices from the other houseboat calling to her in Chinese. He could only guess the repeated word, ‘Mei-Er,’ must be her name. He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to

My family is obviously worried about me. I’d better return to my boat now. Hope to see you again—goodbye.

She turned and swam effortlessly toward her own houseboat about twenty yards away. There were a couple of well-dressed Chinese standing by the open deck in the stern, waiting to pick her up. She ignored their hands and lifted herself easily onto the deck.

She turned and glanced back at Mike. The mysterious smile remained on her face. She lifted her right hand to brush the wet hair from her forehead as if she were waving a secret goodbye to him. Her eyes seemed to say the same—a farewell with anticipation and hope. And then she disappeared into the cabin.

Mike was mesmerized. He knew that he would carry that last image of her in his mind for the rest of his life—the eyes that spoke, the eyes that smiled, the eyes that secretly bid a farewell to him … No, he had to see those eyes again.

He forgot he was still in the water and lifted his hand to return the wave. Water entered his nostrils and he choked. John Epstein grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him onto the houseboat. Mike did not even offer to help. He was still staring at the departing boat and the invisible lady.

What’s wrong with you? Too tired to get up yourself? John teased his young friend. He saw what had happened. He was equally impressed with the exquisite Chinese maiden.

I don’t know. The water feels so good; I was going to stay in the water for a while longer. Mike blushed as he tried to spit out the water.

"Come on; don’t hide your feelings from your friend. There is nothing wrong in admiring a beautiful lady. Why don’t you swim after her and introduce yourself? You look like an idiot.

Where are your brains and your tongue?" John was relentless in making fun of the young officer.

Mike was too embarrassed to answer. John was absolutely right. He had not even uttered a single word since he saw her. What’s the matter with you, Michael, he scolded himself. You really were an idiot He entered the cabin to check on the young boy and was glad he was doing all right now. The boy sat quietly with curious eyes darting around. He had never seen so many foreigners in one place before, but he was apparently not scared. The American girls were feeding him candies and fruits.

Mike went back to the bow and searched. The houseboat with the beautiful maiden had slowly rowed away toward one of the canals. She did not reappear from the cabin. He waved again, hoping that she might somehow see him and come out. Nothing happened, of course. His boat was now turning around and headed for the dock to deliver the boy to the police. His dream girl was farther and farther away and his heart sank deeper and deeper.

John Epstein observed Mike with amusement. The young daughter of the houseboat operator came and handed Mike a stack of towels to dry himself. His eyes never left the disappearing houseboat. He took the wet shirt off, exposing his young and bulging muscles. The single girls, standing by the cabin door, were giggling. John shooed them back into the cabin so Mike could strip the outer pants off as well. The wife of the boatman took Mike’s wet clothes and spread them on the deck. The warm sun would dry them soon.

Mike sat by the handrail, wrapped in a large bedspread, trying to store the image of the elusive maiden into the most private compartment of his memory. John Epstein left him alone and went inside the cabin. He would not let the single girls come out and disturb Mike.

When Mike finally entered the cabin fully dressed, his colleagues cheered him for his heroic act. The single girls clustered around him and kissed his cheek, each in turn. They might as well have been kissing a wooden log. Mike was not responding at all. John brought a cold drink to him and dragged him to the open bow again. He was the only one who knew Mike had questions. He was prepared to offer answers.

You know, Mike, while you were out here sunning, I was speculating about your encounter with the mysterious Chinese lady. John pursed his lips, a sign whenever he was deep in thought.

Um-hum, Mike nodded. If anyone could help him in this foreign land, it had to be John Epstein.

Trust me. I have read too many romantic stories in Ch mese literature. This is how a memorable love affair always happens in this ancient country, for reasons I cannot explain. When a man meets a woman by chance and if they like each other, it’s a kind of love-at-first-sight for both of them. Then they separate without much involvement—sometimes without even knowing each other’s identity. John spoke rather slowly because he was trying to recall something from his deep reservoir.

So far you are one hundred percent right about my part of the love story. How would I know if she also felt love-at-first-sight? Mike questioned.

I saw the way her eyes talked to you and also her wave to you at the end. There is no doubt in my mind that she likes you. I can tell. Believe me, I can tell.

I wish you were right. Then what? Mike asked with more gusto. John’s words had lifted him from the dark abyss he was in only a few minutes ago. But he still could not see the top of the mountain yet.

Well, be patient, young man; let me finish. Obviously the man and woman must meet again. If they still have strong feelings for each other the second time they are together, then they can fulfill their love for one another. The Chinese call it a love predestined, the most sublime of all human relationships. It’s a love made in heaven, but consummated on earth. John exaggerated by wiggling his thin forefinger in the air.

But, John, there are at least five hundred million people in China. How am I ever going to meet her again? Mike asked, exasperated.

You will, my friend, if she is part of your destiny, John answered. I have a feeling that you will find her. Just trust me. Those stories are real, not just creations of a novelist in his daydreams.

Mike was of course not totally convinced. He made the only logical conclusion, that John invented the concept of predestined love to console him. He was obviously and painfully in love. Even a fool could see it. What tortured him most was the fact that he did not know who the girl was. So John conveniently invented this meeting-again story to give him some hope. Thanks but no thanks; your story is not going to bring her to me, Mike thought bitterly.

John left him alone for the rest of the day. The single girls somehow knew that their champion was no longer available. They also gave up on him. Mike was not unhappy with the newfound solitude. He was gloomy all the way back to the Consulate. That night he was sleepless, thinking of the pair of large brown eyes that could speak, tease, and love—Could he ever look into those eyes and tell her how much he adored her? He closed his own weary eyes when the morning sun ushered in a new day.

He walked the streets of Shanghai for a couple of weekends and many evenings too. He even took another bus trip to Tai

Lake by himself and walked the shores of the canal where her boat had entered the lake. He gave up when he realized it was simply not possible to find her this way.

Chapter Two   58462-CHEN-layout.pdf

Winston Wu came from a prominent family in the Shanghai area, with ancestry dating back hundreds of years. His family owned textile factories, old-fashioned silk mills, and large patches of farmland that were leased to hundreds of peasants. They produced exquisite fabrics for the royal families during the Ching Dynasty. His grandfather was a well-known scholar serving in the imperial court, and a superb calligrapher.

His father broke the family tradition and sent him overseas to study business management rather than the art of using a brush pen. He received a Master’s degree in business from Columbia University in New York. He returned to China in 1930 to work at the Ministry of Finance, in the then-young Republic of China.