The story behind sister’s new villa
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 25: After the Crisis
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Frances Guo
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Frances Guo's biography and other articles by this writer
Standing in my red coat, next to my luggage on the shining granite floor, I wait anxiously. Facing Gate 10, my eyes survey the cavernous space around me – the dramatic high ceilings, the bright futurist décor and the endless rows of check-in counters.
So this is it: the new Beijing airport. Like a proud phoenix, it spreads its giant wings to the east of the city. When I first saw its striking shape, in Sydney, my eyes were glued to the television screen. I wished I was at the Olympics: such an intoxicating time, all the excitement, all the pride – for China, for all Chinese faces around the world.
But the glory was soon tainted – by poisoned milk, sick babies and the global recall of food containing Chinese dairy products. Even this new complex was caught up in scandal. Not long after the airport revealed its grandeur to the world's top leaders and athletes, the former head of the Beijing Airport Group faced the death sentence, accused of massive corruption.
A WOMAN IN A RED down jacket rushes through Gate 10 and looks around.
I wave; she hurries towards me. ‘Have you been waiting long?' Second Sister asks, a little embarrassed, reaching for my suitcase.
‘Not long – don't worry,' I reassure her, our eyes lock, full of warmth.
As we push the trolley out the gate, the bitter wind strikes my face. I pull up my collar. Second Sister's steps quicken. Her gloved finger presses a button and the boot of a chilli-red car pops open right in front of us.
‘Is this yours?' I ask.
‘Yes, what do you think?'
‘Smart,' I reply, admiring its smooth lines and the shining V-above-W emblem on the grille.
‘Hop in.' Second Sister tilts her head. I open the door, slump onto the cream-coloured leather seat. After turning off the main road, we pass some open fields, then slow down to go through a black iron gate. A man in dark uniform and beige cap raises his right hand solemnly, fingers pointing towards temple, palm facing chin. I recognise the salute of the People's Liberation Army, a gesture my sister and I know well from our childhood in a Chinese army compound.
‘But he's only a security guard, not a PLA soldier?' I say, puzzled.
‘Many of them were PLA soldiers,' replies Second Sister. ‘They say you can judge an estate's value by how tall and handsome its security guards are.'
Passing rows of houses, our car pulls into the carport in front of a two-storey house. ‘Here we are,' Second Sister announces, leading the way with my suitcase. Past the picket fence, across a small patch of frozen lawn, we enter the front door and change into slippers.
‘Wow,' I exclaim, awed by a huge open-plan space. Facing us, French lounges feature delicate details: curvy frames and classic floral covers. To the right, a long table and eight high-back chairs define the dining area. Beyond that, a kitchen sparkles with appliances, a granite island bench and a small red TV on the wall. Next to the lounge, a large floral painting radiates warmth; across the room is a large flat-screen television.
The screen is huge, at least three times the size of mine in Sydney, which is not small by Australian standards. First Sister's admonition echoes in my mind: ‘Even a landlord's home is not as lavish.' I smile and wonder what our landlord grandparents would think of Second Sister's new house. If only they had survived those miserable years almost half a century ago – kicked out of their home, thrown into a mud house in a village, bullied by peasants, sweating on the farm they had leased before it was confiscated by the communists.
Second Sister's voice breaks the silence. ‘Come, I'll show you upstairs.' Putting my luggage in the guest room, we cross the expensive timber floor and go upstairs. As we step into the master bedroom, my jaw drops. The room makes my bedroom in Sydney seem like a closet. My eyes wander – taking in the indulgent king-size bed, the vast walk-in wardrobe, the ensuite with sparkling spa bath – and freeze. Standing against a wall, half a room away from the bed, is a screen the size of the one downstairs. The bedroom feels like a small cinema. ‘Perhaps the TV is a bit too big,' Second Sister says, sensing my reaction.
I follow her to the next room. Facing a large timber desk, matching bookshelves fill the wall from floor to ceiling. Under a bay window, cushions with delicate covers spread across cream-coloured seats. Braided ropes carefully tie intricate silk curtains to each side. Every detail seems to say, ‘We love our new home and, as you can see, no expense has been spared.'
‘Chenchen, Little Auntie is here,' my sister calls, passing a wall of built-in wardrobes and knocking on a door.
‘Ai, coming,' a voice responds. A slim girl, tall as me, stands in front of us in pyjamas.
‘Hey, Chenchen, taller again,' I tease. ‘What're you up to?' I check out her new room: circular bed, another TV, cushions strewn around the floor, books piled on a low desk.
‘Studying...' She rolls her eyes.
‘Well, good luck.' Sensing her time pressures, we withdraw.
‘She is preparing to study overseas,' my sister explains as we head downstairs.
‘So soon?' I raise my eyebrows. ‘Doesn't she want to work for a while first?'
‘No. When she finishes university, jobs will be even harder to find.
I heard nowadays some graduates even burn joss sticks at temples, pray
for jobs.'
‘Where is Chenchen going?'
‘America.' The word slips off her tongue. ‘It's her choice and we encourage her, while we still have some Chairman Mao left in our pocket,' my sister adds. We laugh.
It is good to see she still has her spirit and cheeky sense of humour. I love the new nickname for the red banknotes with Mao's portrait: Chairman Mao. It is also ironic – the man who put so few banknotes into pockets for so long is now on all of them. Today, despite the countless traumas and the weeping ghosts his political campaigns left behind, he still smiles at us from the red wall of Tiananmen. At least now his people have more money in their pockets, and enough freedom to joke about him, their old Great Leader, almost openly, without being condemned, arrested or executed.
While Second Sister makes a pot of green tea, I wander around the vast lounge room. Next to the giant screen, I pick up a small photo: a toddler on a bare cement floor in front of a cheap wardrobe. Under a red hat, a big smile fills her sweet little face. As I gaze at the photo, memories of my sister's first home flood back.