Tulane Review Digital

er,” a middle-aged woman said at an octave
just
loud enough for us to pick up as we passed her
group.
I had thought the virus was still a small topic
to be shared over meals, between bites.
However, when I understood the weight of
those words I looked to the group of walkers,
catching the eye of an elderly woman. There
was a certainty in them, an awareness of what
had
happened in the past and will happen in the
future and may be happening now. It was in
their
eyes, the experienced, that we should have
seen everything to come. But, like the rest of
the
youth, I refused to acknowledge the things that
were not yet ours.
The next morning, New Year’s Eve, we
woke early and shared sweet dumplings. As
Mengqi’s
mother placed the bowl in front of me she offered
gently, “eat slowly.” When I finished the
bowl
she refilled it, “eat more”. The instructions
were placidly comforting. Not to read the American
news that seemed to conjure up a new virus story every
hour, nor the Chinese news that
promised an imminent complete containment, but, rather,
to simply eat and rest and in the
process, inadvertently wait.
We began a merry-go-round of sorts between the houses
of Mengqi’s family. Apartments
crackling with movement, women bustled with the preparations
of a meal large enough to fill
more than one cornucopia. The young scampered,
squealing and accepting nibbles of snacks
from offering hands, the men sipped a white liquor literally
named white liquor, the elderly
watched television a few clicks above mute. The screen
projected a drama centered on the
Japanese invasion of the latter century. The seniors were
rapturous while no one else seemed
to take notice. Sightings of Japanese soldiers were rare;
traces of their brutality marked their
footprints: a bloodied soldier yowling in a hospital bed, a
woman clasping her coat, explosions. It
seemed that no matter the backdrop the flashing signs of
blasts lit up the actor’s faces, a
promise of the things to come, perhaps only on the opposite
side of the horizon.
A woman I assumed to be Mengqi’s grandmother
turned to me, “does your family watch
these shows?”
“My father likes movies about World War Two.”
“About the Japanese?” She looked encouraged.
“About the Nazi’s.” there was not the disappointment
in her face that I expected, rather a
confirmation of universality bounced in her
nod.
The program was never switched off. As the
meal began, plates poured from the kitchen.
One table stood high, surrounded by chairs and
men with a bottle of liquor between them.
Another table, short, a couch on one side and
stools on the other, hot milk for every cup,
surrounded by women and children. Segregation
based on beverages.
A small cup of liquor was offered from the taller
table, “we know that foreign women can
drink.” In acceptance, I rose, taking the cup. As
the liquor warmed my chest the men continued
their discussion.
“There is an unconfirmed case of the virus.”
The cups were refilled.
“Where?”
“At our hospital.”