Frog

This child’s father has a round face, Gugu was saying, long, narrow eyes, a flat nose, thick lips and fat ears; his mother has a thin, oval face, almond-pit eyes with double folds, a small mouth, high nose bridge, and thin ears with no lobes. The child would take after his mother, but with a larger mouth, slightly thicker lips, bigger ears, and a nose bridge slightly lower…

As Gugu muttered her description, a clay doll took shape in Uncle’s hands. After forming eyebrows with a pointed bamboo strip, he pulled back to take a look, made a few changes, then placed it on a plank in front of her.

Gugu picked it up, studied it, and said:

Make the eyes a little larger and thicken the lips.

He took it from her, made the changes and handed it back. His eyes lit up like lightning beneath his bushy grey brows.

With the doll in her hands Gugu held her arms out for a distant look, then brought them in close; a look of kindness spread across her face. Yes, that’s it, she said, that’s him. But then her tone changed as she spoke directly to the doll: This is you, you little sprite, you little debtor. Gugu destroyed two thousand eight hundred foetuses, and you’re the last. With you, we have them all.

I laid a bottle of Wuliangye on the windowsill, Little Lion laid a box of sweets next to Gugu. Gugu, we said together, we’ve come to see you.

Like someone who has been caught making contraband, she was startled and jittery. She tried covering the doll with her sleeve, but couldn’t manage. Then she stopped trying. I can’t hide anything from you, she said.

Gugu, I said, we’ve watched the documentary Wang Gan sent us, and now we understand you and know what’s in your heart.

I’m glad, she said as she stood up and carried the newest clay doll over to the eastern side rooms. Without turning around, she said, Follow me. Her large, shapeless figure in black created a mysterious tension in us. Father had said she hadn’t been acting quite normal, so we’d seldom been to see her since our return. It was heartbreaking to see what a sad figure she’d become after the renown and influence she’d enjoyed as a younger woman.

A dank chill assailed our noses in the dim light of the building. Gugu pulled the chain on a hundred-watt bulb near the wall, bringing the room into sharp focus. Every window in the three rooms was bricked up. Latticed wooden racks fronted the eastern, southern, and northern walls, each little square occupied by a clay doll.

Gugu placed the doll in her hands into the last square on the wall, then stepped back, lit three sticks of incense on an altar in the centre of the room, fell to her knees, brought her palms together, and muttered prayerfully.

We hastily joined her on our knees, though I didn’t know what I should be praying for. The lively images of the children on the signboard in front of the Sino-American Jiabao Women and Children’s Hospital scrolled through my mind like a peepshow. I was feeling immense gratitude, shame and remorse, and fine threads of terror. I knew that by employing her husband’s talents, Gugu was bringing to life all the children she’d stopped from being born. I guessed that was her way to assuage deep-seated feelings of guilt, and there was nothing wrong with that. If she hadn’t done it, someone else would have. The men and women who defied the policy against multiple pregnancies could not escape a share of the responsibility for what happened. And if no one had done what she did, it is truly hard to say what China might be like today.

Her devotion completed, Gugu stood up and said, with a broad smile, Xiaopao, Little Lion, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve fulfilled my desire. Take a good look around you. Every one of these children has a name. I’ve brought them all together here where they can accept my offerings. Once they have reached spiritual attainment they can leave for wherever they are fated to be reborn. Gugu led us past each of the squares and told us where the boys and girls went or were to go.

This girl, she said, pointing to a doll with almond-shaped eyes, and lips in a little pout, should have been born to Tan Xiaoliu and Dong Yue’e of Tan Family Village in August 1974, but I destroyed her. Now everything is fine. Her father is a wealthy farmer, her mother a resourceful woman, and together they invented a process of irrigating celery with cow’s milk to produce a fresh vegetable that sells for sixty yuan a jin.

This boy, Gugu said as she pointed to a laughing doll with eyes reduced to a squint, should have been born to Wu Junbao and Zhou Aihua of Wu Family Bridge in February 1983, but I destroyed him. Now everything is fine. The little imp is flooded with good luck, reborn into the family of an official in Qingzhou Prefecture. Both parents are Party cadres, and his grandfather is high-ranking provincial official who is regularly seen on TV. Gugu has done well by you, you little imp.