A MORTAL FLOWER

Han Suyin

The day after meeting Hilda I wrote a letter to the Rockefeller Foundation, applying for a job.

Neither Father nor Mother thought I would get in. "You have to have pull. It's an American thing. Rockefeller Foundation. You must have pull."

Mother said: "That's where they do all those experiments on dogs and people. All the Big Shots of the Nanking government also came here to have medical treatment, and sometimes took away a nurse to become a new wife."

It made sense to me, typing in a hospital; I would learn about medicine, since I wanted to study medicine. And as there was no money at home for me to study, I would earn money, and prepare myself to enter medical school. I had already discovered that a convent-school2 education was not at all adequate, and that it would take me at least three more years of hard study before being able to enter any college at all. Science, mathematics, Chinese literature and the classics … with the poor schooling given to me, it would take me years to get ready for a university.

"I will do it," But clenched teeth, decision tearing my bowels, were not enough; there was no money, no money, my mother said it, said it until I felt as if every scrap of food I ate was wrenched off my father's body.

"No one is going to feed you doing nothing at home." Of course, one who does not work must not eat unless one can get married, which is called: "being settled at last." But with my looks I would never get married; I was too thin, too sharp, too ugly. Mother said it, Elder Brother had said it. Everyone agreed that I should work, because marriage would be difficult for me.

Within a week a reply came. The morning postman brought it, and I choked over my milk and coffee. "I'm to go for an interview. At the Peking Union Medical College. To the Comptroller's office."

Father and Mother were pleased. Mother put the coffee pot down and took the letter. "What good paper, so thick." But how could we disguise the fact that I was not[even] fifteen years old? I had claimed to be sixteen in the letter. In fact, said Papa, it was not a lie since Chinese are a year old when born, and if one added the New Year as an extra year, as do the Cantonese and the Hakkas, who became two years old when they reach their first New Year (so that a baby born on December 31st would be reckoned two years old on the following January 2nd), I could claim to being sixteen.

"You look sixteen," said Mama; "all you have 10 do is to stop hopping and picking your pimples. And lengthen your skirt."

What dress should I wear? I had two school uniforms, a green dress, a brown dress, and one dress with three rows of frills for Sunday, too dressy for an interview. I had no shoes except flat-heeled school shoes, and tennis shoes. There was no time to make a dress and in those years no ready-made clothes existed, so Mother lengthened the green dress. I squeezed two pimples on my forehead, then went to the East market and bought some face powder, Butterfly brand, pink, made in Shanghai by a Japanese firm.

The next morning, straw-hatted, with powder on my nose, I went with my father to the gates of the hospital.

11 "It's not this gate, this is for the sick. It's the other gate, round the corner," said the porter.

The Yu Wang Fu Palace occupied a whole city block. We walked along its high grey outer wall, hearing the dogs scream in the kennels, and came to its other gate, which was the Administration building gate. It had two large stone lions, one male, one female. We crossed the marble courtyard, walked up the steps with their carved dragons coiling in the middle, into an entrance hall, with painted beams and intricate painted ceiling, red lacquered pillars, huge lamps. There was cork matting on the stone floor.

"I'll leave you," said Papa. 'Try to make a good impression." And he was gone.

I found the Comptroller's office easily; there was a messenger in the hall directing visitors. An open door, a room, two typewriters clattering and two women making them clatter.

I stood at the door and one of the women came to me. She had the new style of hair, all upstanding curls, which I admired, a dress with a print round the hem: she was very pregnant, so that her belly seemed to be coming at me first. She smiled. "Hello, what can I do for you?"

"I have an interview."

She took the letter from my hand. "Glad you could come. Now, just sit you down. No, sit down there. I'll tell Mr. Harned you've come."

The office had two other doors besides the one to the corridor, on one was "Comptroller." That was the one she went through and returned from.

"Mr. Harned will see you now."

Mr. Harned was very tall, thin, with a small bald head, a long chin, enormous glasses. I immediately began to quiver with fright. His head was like a temple on top of a mountain, like the white pagoda on the hill in the North Sea Park. I could not hear a word of what he said. A paper and a pencil were in my hand, however, and Harned was dictating to me, giving me a speed test in shorthand.

I went out of his office and the pregnant secretary sat me in front of her own typewriter. I turned a stricken face to her, "I couldn't hear. I couldn't hear what he said … "

"Wait, I'll tell him." She bustled off. At the other desk was a blonde, thin girl, who had thrown one look at me and then gone back to clattering. The pregnant one reappeared, a pink sheet in hand: "Now just copy this on the typewriter, best you can."

I hit the keys, swiftly; the typewriter was the same make as mine, a Royal.

"My, you are fast. I'll tell Mr. Harned."

And Mr. Harned came out, benign behind those enormous goggle glasses. "Well, Miss Chou, we've decided to take you on as a typist, at thirty-five dollars a month. To start Monday. Is that all right?"

I nodded, unable to speak. Had he said ten dollars I would have accepted.

The kind secretary said: "Now take your time, and wipe your face. How old are you, by the way?"

"Sixteen, nearly."

"Is that all? Why my eldest is bigger than you, and she isn't through school yet. I told Mr. Harned you were shy and upset, and that's why you couldn't take dictation. He's all right, just takes getting used to. that's all."

"I couldn't understand his English."

"Oh, you'll get used to it. Now, I won't be around on Monday, I'm going to have a baby. It's your letter that got them interested in you, you wrote such good English, better than all the other letters we've had. Mr. Harned will give you a try." She whispered, "I put in a good word for you."

"Thanks, thanks a lot, … I need the money, I … "

"Yes, dear, we know." Obviously she wanted her typewriter back, and her chair. I was still sitting on it. "Well, bye-bye for now; hope you enjoy yourself in this job. I've been here six months and I've enjoyed every minute. Don't let Mr. Harned worry you; he's really great, once you get used to him."

I had a job, had a job, had a job.