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 that stood on the ridge where the highway passed, 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 Spanish conquistadors, and the 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, with armed men from the local Armed Forces Department standing guard. The truck slowly made its way toward the back of town.
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 hanging from their necks, bearing their crimes: “Murderer So-and-so,” and the like.
On that same day, up on the ridge where the highway passed, 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 shot dead that they couldn’t pay attention to anything else, 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 big old hackberry.
3
Around that time, a military helicopter, flying in from Kunming or God knows where, crashed into the rice paddies behind town, not far from the old execution ground where those criminals were shot and buried in shallow graves, which we children would later stumble upon, trip over, and fall flat on our faces, biting 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. For days afterward, streams of townsfolk went out to marvel at the enormous dragonfly that had fallen out of the sky.
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.
“Not far,” I told her. “Just a little over five kilometers. See that big tree up there, on the slope by the mountain pass? Once we get there, we’re practically at the station.”
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.
The mountain pass didn’t look far at all. Neither did the old hackberry on the ridge. From town, it looked like a walk you could do without even trying.
But 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.
We got to talking, and the guy told me, “I was driving my truck over the pass that day. Saw the two of you. Recognized you, too. I was going to stop and give you a lift, but then I saw you leave the highway and start climbing toward that hackberry on the ridge. So I kept going.”
“Dude! Why the hell didn’t you stop? She was giving me hell!”
My girlfriend and I hadn’t expected anything of the sort. There weren’t more than a few vehicles passing along that old highway on any given day. But if someone had offered us a lift, that would have been something we’d have died for.
Strange to say, because looking back, on the one hand I regret that my friend didn’t stop, and on the other, I’m glad he didn’t call out to us.
Go figure!
5
I had the property transfer thing done and went to a farmhouse restaurant by the road that ran around the lake for lunch.
A caged myna squinted its little bird eyes at me, then began squawking in an old man’s voice, as though reporting me to someone:
“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, each louder than the last, 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 old hackberry from where I stood.
But there was none to be seen.
I couldn’t even make out the ridge, let alone a tree standing on it.
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, but with an accent you could recognize even in your sleep.
And yet she doesn’t even look at you. She just asks you to hand over your papers.
Proof that your mother was your mother. Proof that your father was your father.
Your parents’ death certificates. Proof that your parents’ death certificates were genuine.
Your passport. A notarized copy of your passport.
And proof that the person holding your foreign passport is one and the same person who once held a passport issued by your former country.
Then you go to the cashier, pay the processing fee and stamp duty.
And that’s about it.
7
The family friend who had been looking after my parents’ property was waiting for me outside the apartment building. She welcomed me, let me in, 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 small 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 the fancy takes me, I might come back and spend the rest of my life here.
Whether I can see it from the yard or not, as long as I’m around, that old hackberry will always be there.
Just five kilometers to the north.
