1
For many years, five kilometers was, to me as a small child, the distance from any point on the outskirts of town to the old hackberry tree that stood on the ridge far to the north.
Put another way, the old hackberry was to me what the South Pole was to Shackleton, the star to the Three Wise Men, El Dorado to the conquistadors, and the giant windmills to Don Quixote de la Mancha and his dumb-ass sidekick, Sancho Panza.
It was the root of all my future waywardness, miseries, and failures. By that I mean the restlessness in me that saw one thing at one time, another at another, always thinking that if I just followed the calling, answered it, pursued it, and finally reached wherever it was leading me, I’d have done my job, fulfilled the calling, achieved happiness, and found peace of mind knowing I’d done what I was supposed to do.
2
Yeah, I mean, it was in that same year that there was a public execution of convicted criminals by firing squad.
The public trial was held in the town square. Afterward, the condemned were escorted onto a People’s Liberation Army truck, which slowly made its way toward the back of town, with armed guards on board.
The whole town followed the truck to the execution ground. Streams of townsfolk, their faces reddened with excitement and their voices hushed, followed the condemned men, whose hands were tied behind their backs, their heads hung low, and cardboard placards bearing their crimes hung from their necks.
On that same day, up on the ridge, a girl was found hanging from the lone hackberry tree.
No one saw her at the time. For Heaven’s sake, that tree was five kilometers from town! Nor did anyone notice anything unusual from the execution ground. Not because everyone was so excited at the prospect of seeing someone get the daylight knocked out of him, but because the execution ground was a bit off to the west, and you really couldn’t get a good view of the ridge from there, let alone the hackberry.
3
Around that time, an army helicopter went down in the rice paddies behind the town, not far from the old execution ground where they were going to shoot those criminals and bury them in shallow graves, which we children would later stumble upon, trip over, and fall flat on our faces, eating the dust.
I mean the real red dirt, okay? Not what adults mean by that phrase. There were so many things adults said that we children didn’t get.
Anyway, after the helicopter crashed, it remained stuck in the rice field, its nose buried in the mud. All day long, and for days afterward, streams of townsfolk went out to witness the holy site.
All day long, their chitchatter could be heard as they streamed westward and back.
4
One time, years after the helicopter incident, when I had grown into a young man, with fuzzy hairs on my upper lip and a man’s voice in my throat, I took my girlfriend back to the town where I’d grown up.
On the day we were to return to the city, instead of waiting for the bus that ran between town and the freight train station seven kilometers away, I talked her into walking to the station on the other side of the ridge, rather than waiting for the bus like everyone else.
As far as memory goes, it was a nice day, and the walk was a nice one too.
But I guess at one point or another during that walk, there was some tension between me and my city girlfriend, who was wearing half-heels and had no hat to protect her from the sun. She wasn’t prepared for such a walk, hadn’t been forewarned, and had no idea what she was getting herself into.
To be fair, neither did I.
For whatever reason, on that day the ridge seemed unapproachable, and the hackberry on top of it ever receding. It felt as though we would never reach it.
But other than the guilt of having made her walk instead of sitting comfortably on a bus to catch the train, I was perfectly fine. And if I had to name a day in my life that was pleasant, hopeful, mystifying, enchanting, a day I wish had lasted till this day, that was the day.
Years afterward, I ran into a childhood friend.
The guy told me he’d been driving his truck past the ridge that day. He saw the two of us, recognized me, and wanted to stop and give us a lift. But when he saw us wander off the highway and start climbing the hill toward the hackberry, he decided to drive on.
I was like, dude, why didn’t you!
My girlfriend and I hadn’t expected anything of the sort, but if someone had offered us a lift, that would have been something we’d have died for. Strange to say, because on the one hand, looking back, I wanted a lift, and on the other, I didn’t want one.
Go figure!
5
I had the property transfer thing done and went to a farmhouse restaurant for lunch.
A myna in a cage saw me enter, squinted its eyes, and started to cackle:
“Guest arriving! Guest arriving!”
While waiting for my food, I went out into the yard.
There were chickens in bamboo cages, roosters going cock-a-doodle-doo, and an ostrich pacing its enclosure, its eyes wide open like crazy.
I cast my gaze northward, thinking I might be able to see the hackberry from where I stood.
But there was none to be seen.
I couldn’t even make out the ridge, let alone a tree on it. A hackberry, at that!
6
Lest I forget, let me tell you folks how the property transfer went.
You go into this big, empty hall on the second floor, walk up to the ticket machine, and take a number. Then you find yourself a place to sit, keeping your eyes on the display the whole time so you won’t miss your turn.
When your number comes up, you go to the counter that’s serving you.
A local girl speaks to you in Mandarin, with an accent you could recognize even in your sleep. And yet she doesn’t look at you. She just asks you to hand over your papers.
Proof that your mother was your mother, and your father was your father.
The original death certificates of your parents, and notarized copies of those certificates.
Your passport, and a notarized copy of your passport.
And notarized proof that you are one and the same person as the one shown on your foreign passport and the passport of your old country, before you fucking messed things up and became a goddamn member of the diaspora, living in a country most hated by the people of the country you used to call your own.
7
The family friend who had been taking care of the property welcomed me, let me into the apartment, and showed me around.
Fridge here, TV there, tea set here, coat hangers on the rooftop balcony.
Then she took me out into the tiny backyard.
Unfortunately, she said apologetically, the bodhi tree in the backyard had died during the cold spell the previous winter.
She said this as though she were somehow responsible for the death of the tree.
I looked around, and then up.
The buildings surrounding my parents’ place were all taller, and all I could see was a corner of sky above the backyard.
I had hoped the apartment would be on the edge of something, somewhere I could look northward and see the ridge, and the tree on top of it.
On second thought, I reckon it mattered not whether the apartment had a view of the ridge or not.
If life has taught me one thing, it’s that if a thing is there, it is there. If not, then not.
Maybe I’ll sell the apartment, so someone else can have a look at what I failed to see.
Or maybe I won’t.
Maybe I’ll keep it, and someday, if I ever feel like it, if I want to come back and spend the rest of my life here, the hackberry is going to be there, always, whether I can see it from the yard or not.
