Redemption Theme Analysis

[H]is grandson was alone somewhere in the hospital and there was nothing he could do but wait. Wei wondered if it was some kind of retribution for his years of self-absorption. He had always been too involved in his own work, never taking into consideration how it might affect those around him. Rather than going into business as his father had wished […] he concentrated on his art history studies, preoccupied with teaching and research. He was thirty when he finally married Liang, and […] Sheng came along unexpectedly almost ten years later. Through it all, Wei continued to work long hours […] He told himself that his work was a part of all their legacies, but was it? By the time he paused long enough, Wei had missed so much of Sheng’s childhood that he had little memory of what his son was like as a boy.

The lines were burned into his memory. If China is to become a stronger nation, the Party must open its eyes and see that power comes from free expression. What freedom we do have in a Communist society if artists and intellectuals are tortured for following their hearts? What freedom do we have if art and ideas and politics can’t be appreciated and openly discussed? How can there be strength in suppression?

Wei had written his thoughts with such truth and clarity, as if a light had suddenly flooded a long-darkened room. Now these very same ideas had turned to needles pricking his skin, and the truth he’d written had condemned his son to hard labor. After a lifetime of keeping to himself and remaining closemouthed, what made him write the letter and sign his name? A moment of vanity and conceit, a need to feel important again […]

The beginning of the story always remained the same: Huoyi was commanded by the Emperor Yao to use his archery skills to shoot down nine of the ten suns to keep the earth from burning up. Upon completing the task, the emperor gave the famed archer a pill that granted him eternal life. Knowing its value, Huoyi left the pill at home with Chang’e when he was sent away on another mission for the emperor. From there, they story of why Chang’e swallowed the pill of immortality splintered off into different versions. So far, Tao’s favorite account was Chang’e having to protect the pill from Peng, one of Huoyi’s apprentice archers, who forcefully tried to take the pill from her. Knowing that she was unable to fight him off, her only choice was to swallow the pill herself.

Wei felt suddenly vigorous and confident again as he hurried off to fetch Mrs. Lu. As he fought against the wind and rain, slowly making his way down the street, the line had returned to him again, Even so, the world intrudes. It must have been a line from some famous Tang dynasty poem he had long ago memorized. It bothered him even more that he couldn’t remember the lines that followed. When Wei returned home, he would scour his books of poetry until he found the poem. He’d spent most of his life avoiding the world, but ironically, it had landed right there at their doorstep.

By the time he returned with Mrs. Lu, the baby had already come into the world.

He glanced out to the courtyard and the kapok tree. When he turned back to Tao, he saw Sheng again at the same age, always so formal and closemouthed around him. He remembered all the times he heard Sheng talking to Liang, joking and laughing, but as soon as he entered the room, it was as if the air had changed. He and Sheng hadn’t learned to be friends until late in his life. Now he only wanted his son home again.

“I know…” Wei began, realizing the words that followed would change all of their lives forever. “I know because it was me. I was the one to write the letter, not your ba ba.”

Wei felt as if he’d been falling for the past year and had finally hit the ground. He stared down at the table and couldn’t look at either Kai Ying or Tao.

Wei pulled at his tunic collar and felt the room spinning, but he didn’t look away [… Kai Ying’s] dark eyes were unrecognizable, filled with something worse than anger: disappointment. […]

Outside came the singsong voice of the fruit peddler calling out “Bananas! Oranges! Mangoes!” […] He wanted to run out and buy all the fruit in the peddler’s basket as an offering, although he knew the sweetest fruits in all of Guangzhou couldn’t buy him forgiveness.

[…] Tao had stayed seated at the table. His grandson was no longer crying, but watching him with the distant gaze of a stranger. Wei hoped the boy would understand that he never meant for any of this to happen. But before he could say anything, Tao scraped back his chair and stood up.

“Tao, I’m sorry,” Wei said.

[…]

“I hate you,” Tao said, “I hate you.”

Kai Ying saw it all so clearly now, the guilt that had to be consuming Wei each day as he retreated more and more into himself. As difficult as it was, Kai Ying understood why Sheng had taken her father-in-law’s place when the police came; Wei would have never been able to survive outside of the villa, much less at a reeducation facility. But why hadn’t Wei told her the truth? Why did he allow her to suffer for over a year, not knowing if there really was a letter, letting her believe that Sheng was the one to jeopardize everything they had? And how was she ever going to forgive a man who would let his pride betray his family?

“I’ve been such a fool,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“My father used to say that the only fool is the man who can’t admit he’s one,” Song said. “Can’t you see Sheng knew what he was doing? It was his choice.”

“And my weakness,” Wei said. “I stood by and allowed him to be taken away in my place.”

“He knew what he was doing,” she repeated.

“I should never have put him in that position!”

“You know nothing about your own son […] and that should be your biggest regret. You’ve lived in the past for so long you can’t see what’s right in front of you. You make a mistake, an unintentional mistake. Who in this life hasn’t crossed that bridge? […] Sheng would never have allowed them to take you. He’s young and strong, he’ll survive.”

Wei avoided the crowded main boulevards, instead turning onto the smaller side streets as he walked in and out of the narrow alleyways. He found himself following the same route he had walked for over forty years of teaching and Lingnan University. Old habits were a way of life for him. He knew the maze of intimate streets by heart and couldn’t bear the large crowds and bicyclists that used to push him along in directions he didn’t want to go. Wei was never comfortable being around too many people outside of the classroom, and over the years, he’d found ways to avoid them and move along at his own pace while remaining as inconspicuous as possible.

Wei told her Sun and Moon had worked for his family ever since they were young women. Before then, they’d been silk workers from the village of Shun-de. When Wei was a boy of nine or ten, Sun and Moon were already middle-aged, and had been working for his family for over twenty years. “They were as different as the sun and moon,” her father-in-law said, and laughed. “There was hardly a time when they didn’t disagree about something. They would have argued about the time of day if they’d had the time!”

When Wei was not yet fifteen, Moon fell ill. Sun devoted herself to taking care of her until she died, six months later, Afterward, Sun stayed on until she became too old, but she was never the same.

Dongshan appeared different now that she was actually living there, the villas behind the tall walls no longer a mystery. They were filled with families and problems just like in Old Guangzhou. But instead of the multitude of voices screaming all at once from the crowded apartments, there was a quiet seething just below the surface in Dongshan. Upon closer scrutiny, she saw the cracks in the stone walls, the big houses crumbling slowly behind them in need of repair or paint or new tiles. All Suyin’s illusions of grandeur had suddenly disappeared. She would never be the same wide-eyed schoolgirl walking down the street for the very first time, and the thought brought both a sigh of relief and a moment of sorrow.

Tao thought about it. Little Shan had betrayed him to be one of Lai Hing’s stray dogs, and now he wanted to be friends again. Mao would have sent him away for less, just like he did his ba ba. He looked up and studied Little Shan’s face, trying to understand what had happened during the past few months, how his entire life had been turned upside down ever since he he’d fallen from the kapok tree. Yet, here he was, standing upright. Little Shan hadn’t totally abandoned him, having saved him from being pummeled by Lai Hing and his gang. Best friends are hard to come by, his grandfather had said. His ye ye was hard to come by. There would never be anyone else like his grandfather, and Tao wanted him back, but until then, Little Shan stood bundled up and waiting in front of him.

“Truce,” Tao said.

Do you remember, he heard Liang’s voice ask him, when Sheng was a little boy and he was determined to fly his dragon kite even when there was no wind? He nodded at the memory, at the calm, cool watery sound of Liang’s voice, and how she had finally returned to him after so many weeks. Yes, he said. Wei could see her smile. Remember how he ran up and down the street trying to get enough wind until he finally gave up, she reminded him. And how you were the one who told him the wind would return again in no time, but he had to be patient. The wind will return again, Liang said. You’ve come this far, just listen to your own words.

Wei wanted to reach out for Liang, but was afraid she would disappear if he did, and remained content to feel her there beside him again.

“I should be the one in here, not you.”

Sheng shook his head.

[…] Wei continued, “[…] I’ve created a world of grief for all of us.” He swallowed.

“Ba ba, you don’t need to explain—”

Wei waved his hand to interrupt. “You’re here. I’ve seen you, touched you. At least I can bring that back to Kai Ying. But can you ever forgive me for writing the letter?” he asked. His fingers felt for the gouge in the table, following it to the edge.

“Forgive you? You don’t need to ask for forgiveness for writing the truth. I would have done the same, given time. I’m here for the both of us. We’re more alike than either of us knew.”

Wei saw the color return to Sheng’s face again as he spoke. We’re more alike than either of us knew. His words hung in the stale air […]

For the very first time since Tao had fallen from the kapok tree, she paused in front of it. It seemed as if an entire lifetime had passed in the five months since. […][Now] the tree stood skeletal, the branches remaining bare until […] the spring. […] Although Kai Ying knew it was foolish, she still dared to hope that they would all be together again by then.

Kai Ying stepped closer to the tree. At least let her hear from Wei again soon, she thought. The gash that her father-in-law had left in the trunk was a scar now, slightly deeper in color and hardly noticeable if you weren’t looking for it. Kai Ying’s fingers graced the smooth wound. She thought of it as just another example of nature’s genius; the kapok tree had healed itself.

From the kitchen, she heard Tao’s and Suyin’s voices and smiled.