Yiyun Li - A Thousand Years of Good Prayers

“You could have helped me before. Remember, you burned my Bible,” Han says, and watches her body freeze. He knows that she has forgotten the incident, but he has chosen not to. The Bible was a gift from his best friend when they were thirteen. They were in love without realizing it; innocent boys they were then, their hands never touching. Han did not know what made the boy seek out the Bible, a tightly controlled publication that one could never see in a bookstore or anywhere he knew, as a birthday gift for him. He did not know what trouble the boy had gone through to get the Bible, but he knew, at the time, that it was the most precious gift he had ever got. It would have remained so, well kept and carried along to each city he moved to, a souvenir of the first love, except that his mother made a fire with the Bible and dumped the ashes into the toilet bowl. She did not know the hours he had spent with his best friend after school, sitting together and reading the Bible, finding a haven in the book while their classmates were competing to join the Communist Youth League. They had loved the stories, the bigness of the book that made their worries tiny and transient. When their classmates criticized them for being indifferent to political activities, they laughed it off secretly, both knowing that the Bible allowed them to live in a different, bigger world.

The Bible was discovered by Han’s father and then burned by his mother. Afterward, Han was no longer able to face his friend. He made up excuses to stay away from his friend; he found fault with his friend and argued with him for any trivial reason. Their friendship — their love — did not last long afterward. It would have been doomed anyway, a first love that was going nowhere, but the way it ended, someone other than himself was to be blamed. “Remember, it’s you who burned the Bible,” Han says.

“Yes,” his mother says, trying hard to find words. “But Baba said it was not appropriate to keep it. It was a different time then.”

“Yes, a different time then because it was Baba who gave out orders, and it was the communist god you both worshipped. And now Baba is gone, and you’ve got yourself a new god to please,” Han says. “Mama, why can’t you use your own brain to think?”

“I’m learning, Han. This is the first decision that I’ve made on my own.”

A wrong decision it is, but Han only smiles out of pity and tolerance.

LATER, WHEN HIS mother cautiously suggests a visit to the church, Han says he will accompany her for the bus ride. It won’t hurt to go in and listen, his mother says, but Han only nods noncommittally.

West Hall, the church that Han used to ride his bicycle past on his way to high school years ago, remains the same gray nondescript building inside the rusty iron fence, but the alleys around were demolished, and the church, once a prominent landmark of the area, is now dwarfed by the surrounding shopping centers. Han watches people of all ages enter the church, nodding at one another politely. He wonders how much these people understand of their placing their faiths in the wrong hands, and how much they care about it.

A few steps away from the entrance, Han’s mother stops. “Are you coming in with me?” she asks.

“No, I’ll sit in the Starbucks and wait for you.”

“Starbucks?”

“The coffee shop over there.”

Han’s mother stretches and looks at it, no doubt the first time she has noticed its existence. She nods without moving. “Mama, go in now,” Han says.

“Ah, yes, just a moment,” she says and looks around with expectation. Soon two little beggars, a boy and a girl, run across the street to her. Brother and sister they seem to be, both dressed up in rags, their hands and faces smeared with dirt and soot. The boy, seven or eight years old, holds out a hand when he sees Han. “Uncle, spare a penny. Our baba died with a large debt. Our mama is sick. Spare a penny, please. We need money to send our mama to the hospital.”

The girl, a few years younger, follows suit and chants the same lines. Han looks at the boy. There is a sly expression in the boy’s eyes that makes Han uncomfortable. He knows they are children employed for the begging job, if not by their parents, then by relatives or neighbors. The adults, older and less capable of moving people with their tragedies, must be monitoring the kids from not far away. Han shakes his head. He does not have one penny for such kids; on his previous vacations, he even fought with the kids, who grabbed his legs tightly and threatened not to loose their grip until they were paid. Han is not a stingy person. In America he gives away dollar bills to the musicians playing in the street, quarters and smaller change for homeless people who sit at the same spot all day long. They are honest workers according to Han’s standard, and he gives them what they deserve. But child laborers are not acceptable, and people using the children deserve nothing. Han pushes the boy’s hand away, and says, “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t bother Uncle,” Han’s mother says to the children, and they both stop chanting right away. Han’s mother takes out two large bills from her purse, and gives one to each child. “Now come with Granny,” she says. The children carefully put the money away and follow Han’s mother to the church entrance.

“Wait a minute, Mama,” Han says. “You pay them every week to go to church with you?”

“It can only benefit them,” Han’s mother says.

“But this is not right.”

“It doesn’t hurt anyone. They would have to beg in the street otherwise.”

“It hurts my principles,” Han says. He takes out several bills from his wallet and says to the boy, “Now listen. I will pay you double the amount if both of you return the money to her and do not go to the church today.”

“Han!”

“Hold it, Mama. Don’t say a word,” Han says. He squats down and flips the bills in front of the children’s eyes. The girl looks up at the boy, and the boy looks up at Han’s mother for a moment and then looks down at the money. The cunning and the calculation in the boy’s eyes infuriate Han; he imagines his mother deceived even by such small children. “Come on,” he says to the boy, still smiling. A few seconds later, the boy accepts Han’s money and gathers the bill from his sister’s hand and returns the two bills to Han’s mother. “Good,” Han says. “You can go now.”

The children walk away, stopping people in the sidewalk and repeating their begging lines. Han turns to his mother with a smile. “What did this tell you, Mama? The only thing that matters to them is money.”

“Why did you do that?” his mother says.

“I need to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” Han’s mother says.

“You can say that, Mama,” Han says. “But the truth is, I’m protecting you, and it’s my duty to do this.”

“What right do you have to talk about the truth?” his mother says, and turns away for the church.

HAN TRIES TO convince himself that he is not upset by his mother’s words. Still, he feels hurt. He is his mother’s son. The boy who accepted the money from him is a son, too, but someday he will become a husband, a father, maybe sending his sons and daughters into the street to beg, maybe giving them a better life. Han will never become a father — he imagines himself known to the world only as someone’s son. Not many men would remain only as sons all their lives, but Jesus is one. It’s not easy being a son with duties, Han thinks, and smiles bitterly to himself. What right does he have? His right is that he lives with his principles. He works. He got laid off, struggled for a few months, but found work again. He pays his rent. He greets his neighbors. He goes to the gym. He watches news channels but not reality shows. He sponsors a young girl’s education in a rural province in China, sending checks regularly for her tuition and her living expenses. He masturbates, but not too often. He does not believe in long-term relationships, but once in a while, he meets men in local bars, enjoys physical pleasure with them, and uses condoms. He flirts with other men, faceless as he himself is, on the Internet, but he makes sure they talk about arts too. He loves his mother. He sends two thousand dollars to her every year, even though she has said many times that she does not need the money. He sends the money still, because he is her son, and it’s his duty to protect her and nurture her, as she protected and nurtured him in his younger years. He saves up his vacation and goes home to spend time with her, but what happens when they are together? A day into the vacation and they are already hurting each other.