Smeared Type

By Jian Ping

Enjoy a hearty meal with Tao, Yan and Mom

We arrived at Changchun about 7 P.M. My sister Yan and her son Tao were waiting for us at the train station. Tao had bought a Volkswagen earlier in the year and had been providing generous transport services to our extended families in Changchun. This evening, he was the designated driver again.

A table of food was waiting for us when we opened the door to Mother’s apartment. I was so happy to see Mother as energetic and high spirited as I left her in May. She, however, frowned at me as she saw me limping.

“You should have waited to come back until your knee is healed,” she said.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” I said. “We have a family doctor.”

It turned out Mother was right. The infection on my knee got worse. Still, I didn’t take it seriously. Limping around, I went to the “Blind Men’s Massage Parlor” the next day and bought a 20-visit massage pass. A full body massage cost 40 Yuan, about US$6, and I couldn’t pass up the treat. In fact, when I fell badly off my bike in Chicago, I was on my way to a gym for a massage. I was in a hurry and fell at a high speed two blocks from my destination. Now, as always

Yan is getting ready for a massage

when in Changchun, I urged my sisters to go with me for massage. My sister Ping and her husband Zhicheng also came from Shenyang. We went to the parlor together and chatted away while enjoying the treat.  In a neighborhood massage place like the one we went to that was run by four blind men, each room had three or four beds and the masseurs worked on their fully-clothed clients, using a small towel over the areas they worked on. They were thorough and strong. Despite the simple setting and condition, the deep tissue massage was quite good!

On the 3^rd day I was home, Wen became more concerned about my infected knee and took me to the hospital she worked at. I didn’t argue—I was in pain and would travel again soon. The doctor put me on an antibiotic IV injection right away. For the next six days, I received two IV injections every day. Wen played doctor and nurse at the same time.

“You know you are not young anymore,” Wen said, struggling to put the thin needle into a blood vessel on the back of my left hand. “I don’t think you should ride your bike anymore.”

A sweet moment with Wen, Yan and Mom

“I promise I’ll be more careful,” I said. I meant it. But I didn’t tell her that over the summer, I rode my bike on the trail along Lake Michigan in Chicago for nearly 20 miles four or five times a week. I loved it and would definitely continue to do so.

Because of my knee, I spent most of the time with Mother at home. I had a great time chatting, playing mahjong, or watching television with her and my sisters. Over the last two decades, I had visited them two or three times each year, but seldom stayed for more than 3 days each time. This time, I stayed for 10 days, a record.  

Jian Ping, author of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. Visit www.mulberrychild.com, www.moraquest.com.

Mulberry Child is being developed into a feature-length documentray film by award-winning director Susan Morgan Cooper and will be released in 2011.

The time to return to Chicago has come and I’m reluctant to leave. I have established a routine of writing, jogging, taking a walk with my mother and a swim with my sister and brother-in-law when they return from work, plus the indulgence of a daily massage. Between family gatherings and delicious meals prepared by my sister Yan, I also squeeze in some time to meet with a couple of old friends. Mother starts calling me a “buzzing bee.” “Don’t you feel tired?” she asks, laughing.

On the contrary, I’m full of energy. I don’t get enough sleep because of my jetlag, but the daily massage rejuvenates me. A neighborhood massage parlor becomes my favorite place. For 320 RMB, about US$50, one can get a pass for 10 sessions of 80-minute full body massage or 20 times of 40-minute partial massage, with focus on shoulders, back or feet. Three blind men work at the parlor as masseurs. Every time I visit Changchun, I’d get one or two passes and invite my sisters to join mer. The masseurs were trained at different schools for the disabled and had been doing massages for more than ten years. They live at the parlor: sleep on the massage tables at night and have meals cooked and served to them at the parlor. They have come from different smaller towns in the province and only visit their homes several times a year.

My sister Wen and I were there last September and both of us are amazed that one of the masseurs calls my sister by name on our first return visit. The condition at the parlor is quite primitive: three narrow massage tables jammed in one room, and the edges of the table worn, and the windows are coated with so much dirt and dust that there is no need for a curtain. The masseurs work on their fully clothed clients over a layer sheet. But the bedding is clean and a freshly washed sheet is placed for each client, and more importantly, the deep tissue massage is first rate.

Through the introduction of a friend, I also meet with Mr. Zhao, the editor-in-chief of the City Evening Post, one of the four similar newspapers in the city. I’m told the newspaper has a circulation of more than 300,000 and is circulated throughout the province. “Only 80 people out of a thousand read newspapers,” Mr. Zhao tells me. “We still have plenty of room for further development.”    

We discusses about my contributing to the “Supplement Section” of the paper on a regular basis. “You are free to write on anything of your interest,” Mr. Zhao says. “The only limitation is the length of each article.”  

Mr. Zhao looks very young for his position. The newspaper is changing to a new layout the day we meet and our conversation is interrupted several times by incoming phone calls or knockings on his door, all sounding urgent to my ears. But Mr. Zhao resumes our talk in the same calm and friendly manner. I like him right away. I am looking forward to our cooperation. 

Mother’s eyes are filled with tears as I bid her goodbye. “Don’t be sad, Mother,” I murmur into her ear as I give her a farewell hug. “I’ll be back again in October.” My voice is as cheerful as it could be. Mother nods. She tries to smile without success. In the end, she raises one arm and waves for me to leave.

Jian Ping, author of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. www.mulberrychild.com