陳秀珍在小學三年級的時候，老師叫他們寫了一篇作文「我的父親」，我想現在應該沒有這種題目了吧，不是每個人都有爸媽，就算有也不見得常常見面。老師出這個題目基本上是找單親、隔代教養、寄人籬下小朋友的麻煩，問他們對爸爸媽媽的想法，還不如問他對海綿寶寶有什麼意見。話說回來，我們的陳秀珍那時跟大部分的家庭一樣，有一個爸爸和一個媽媽，可惜的是，她對爸爸的印象沒比電視上的新聞主播多，主播至少晚上七點會準時出現，爸爸卻是在她睡了以後才回家，變成門縫下的一抹光。這回「我的父親」雖然不是她第一次寫作文，卻是第一次覺得無話可說，還好這是回家作業，所以她可以晚點問媽媽。吳麗麗不是台灣人，知道的中文沒比三年級的小學生多多少，但這位媽媽說了一句很有智慧的話，而且可能是認真小說家都在做的事：你就看看別人怎麼寫吧。
打開作文大全，陳秀珍很快就找到了父親的形象，然後抄到作文簿，那一整個禮拜她一想到這件事就有點擔心，因為她寫的都不是真的，是從書裡抄下來的，但老師給了很好的分數，蓋了好多個乖寶寶章。陳秀珍這才知道，現實是可以虛構的，「我的父親」不一定真的要是我的父親，別人的也沒關係，借來的也不用錢，在文字的世界之中，假的可以是真的，真的可以是假的，人類在這裡獲得了一點點逃逸現實的自由。所以我們可以說，這個女孩在十歲那年就開始寫起了小說，那位老師出這個題目其實是對的，因為他懂得小說的藝術。如果每個老師一開始就揭曉這個謎底，孩子們一定會很高興，把所有的祕密都寫在紙上，然後笑嘻嘻地說，騙你的啦笨蛋，還可以蓋好多乖寶寶章。
吳麗麗在陳秀珍這個年紀曾唸過幾年私塾，但那時候學的中文差不多都忘光了，到台灣又重頭學起，人生地不熟，只有一位撿破爛的老太太常跟她說話，但這老太太總在吳麗麗跟鄰居說話還不到三句，就急著搶白：「你知道嗎她是印尼來的。」某天，陳秀珍放學跟同學聊得正開心，老太太又忽然從垃圾堆蹦出來，問：「你知道你爸爸撿破爛嗎？」那是陳秀珍人生首次面對毫不掩飾且粗糙的惡意，不知道該怎麼反應，但她照樣造句常常被老師稱讚，於是說：「那你知道你在撿破爛嗎？」我認為陳秀珍並不知道這句話的殺傷力，但她可能比別的孩子早一點點發現重複的力量，把價值判斷留給拋出問題的人，結果那位老太太就這樣被自己的惡意擊倒了。
常有不熟的人問吳麗麗說：「太太你不是台灣人吧？」她都回答：「你說呢？」這時有各種假設，像是香港、廣東、客家等等，吳麗麗就成了香港人、廣東人、客家人。但香港人講的是廣東話，廣東人不講客家話，部分客家人說的是閩南語，嚴格來說吳麗麗是籍貫廣東梅縣講客家話的印尼華僑。吳麗麗常把「我們華人」掛在嘴邊，還告訴陳秀珍說，你是印尼華僑和大陸榮民的小孩，這樣的小孩就叫做混血兒，混血兒因為父母的基因不同，頭腦特別聰明，長相也特別可愛。因為這是個對陳秀珍有利的說法，隔天臭屁的陳秀珍立刻就到學校跟同學宣布她就是混血兒，大家都覺得陳秀珍很有學問，因為她知道老師還沒教的生字。為了不輸人，他們一回家就問爸爸媽媽是哪裡人，光說是混台北的還不夠，有台北市和台北縣的差別，台北縣分土城和新莊，南部有混南投和台西，就算有人混過了中央山脈，但這個班上還沒人超過太平洋，陳秀珍穩居第一名寶座，很值得臭屁。
現在我們可以說說這群混血兒放學的那條路，空中瀰漫一股臭味，因為兩邊大多是菜園，免不了施些肥料。高架橋下甚至還有半開放的公共廁所，用塑膠浪板搭起來的棚子，沒有門，像一副打開立著的棺材。陳秀珍總在想，你怎麼能毫無防備地背對馬路上廁所呢，要也是躲在汽車後面的水溝蓋上蹲下來才對，但那些從公廁走出來的大叔很輕鬆的樣子，一點都不怕有人拿刀從背後捅他，久了陳秀珍也覺得那樣的背影蠻帥的，心中充滿敬意。菜園地界用彈簧床支架簡單地圍起來，出入口就是一堆像七巧板的大小木板。除此之外，那條路還有釣蝦場和工廠、專做小朋友生意的雜貨店，學生就在那邊賭博買零食戳冬瓜茶之類，過了高架橋後，逐漸出現幾座公寓，那就是路隊的終點，這些小孩的家。公寓和公寓中間是鐵皮圍起來的建地，長滿高高的芒草，是大家玩捉迷藏的好地方。提早下課比方說月考又不想早回家的時候，這群孩子就拉開菜園的木板，悄悄繞過看守的黑狗和黃狗，往菜園後面那個好深好深的森林走去，高大的蕨類長得像樹一樣高，竹林密布，走在乾燥的竹葉上有沙沙的聲響，抬頭看不見天空，森林裡面有鐵皮屋、三合院、紅磚做的老房子，選舉帆布鋪在泥地上拿來接雨水，望您牽成的標語，笑瞇瞇的候選人臉上都是泥土。這裡又涼快又漂亮，看不到學校也看不到公寓，他們睜大了眼睛四下查看，就怕見到草叢裡有棄屍，但又滿心期待要搶先拿下比拾金不昧還大的功勞。森林的中心有一座小小的土地公廟，這群小孩見了神就虔誠地拜，希望土地爺爺保佑他們做壞事不要被發現。那座森林其實很大，陳秀珍他們走的不過是其中一小部分，再過去有屠宰場、竹木瓦片行、紅燈區、沒水沒電的村莊，這座森林其實是一條狹長的路，叫做二重疏洪道，長久以來一直沒被納入都市計畫和地籍清理。直到十數年後捷運通過，這座森林被剷除成一大片平地與瓦礫，陳秀珍這才看清楚，就算用跑的，恐怕要不停地跑上一小時才能離開這座森林。
陳秋生回家的路上也充滿樂趣，他就是陳秀珍的父親，每天晚上都在垃圾堆發現新鮮事，那時還沒有垃圾不落地政策，街上常常有一落一落的垃圾堆，他撿到什麼，陳秀珍就玩什麼，眼睛會眨動的洋娃娃、遙控車、過期的雜誌和報紙。所以你問陳秀珍，你知道你爸爸在撿破爛嗎，她根本就不覺得那些是破爛，而是好玩的東西。只能怪老師在學校沒教過撿破爛這個詞，不然叫她寫個一行她就學會了，但有些小朋友光寫一行還記不住，寫兩行也記不住，所以我們應該安排一篇〈撿破爛〉的課文，還要抽背，內容是這樣的：
洋娃娃、遙控車
被雨淋濕的紙箱、油汙的塑膠袋、一整落捆好的過期報紙、
紅色的塑膠繩染紅了新聞，
還沒被壓扁的鋁罐和寶特瓶，
一件乾淨的洋裝
發霉的喜餅、彩色的糖果紙
發條斷了的玩具車
畢業了不要的學生制服
一張破沙發或藤椅、電鍋冰箱洗衣機
修理的價格比買新的還高
破裂的碗盤、日光燈管或酒瓶、剃刀刀片
塑膠袋是最接近永恆的東西
吳麗麗對撿破爛沒這麼浪漫的想像，她喜歡新的東西。十多歲的時候很多華人舉家逃難，從婆羅洲的村莊移居到大城市寄人籬下，穿的用的總是親戚施捨的舊東西。那時候逃難還算簡單，只要打包鍋子和衣物，搭很久很久的車。吳麗麗一家的遭遇還算好的，起碼家人團聚在一起。成年後，吳麗麗在成衣廠跟其他同事講起往事，有人是親自收拾父親的屍塊，或整個家族覆滅，只留了一個叔叔和祖母。逃難時期的吳麗麗在雅加達求學，那些沒房子住的人就住在路邊和臨時的避難所，衛生和通風條件都不好，每天都有人死去，蒙了白布的擔架橫過路中央。那個避難所大概有小公園那麼大，裡面卻擠了好幾百人，同樣逃難卻淪為乞丐的華人看到她就哀求小姐行行好，但她身上也是一點錢都沒有。等到她能掙錢了，就喜歡買漂亮的布請人量身訂做洋裝，要不就是買黃金，黃金才是帶得走的東西，白金更好，陳秋生送的婚戒就是白金的。鑽石就別了。因為逃難的時候鑽石沒有金子容易兌現。這說明吳麗麗心裡隨時隨地都有逃難的打算，到了別的國家也一樣。陳秋生過世之後，吳麗麗還戴著婚戒，某天遇到了那位撿破爛的老太太，老太太說她女兒離婚了拿到很多贍養費，付了附近豪宅的頭期款，已經搬進去住了。老太太不止為了這點高興，還說女兒身分證上的配偶欄是空的，可以再嫁。吳麗麗立刻回說：「噢，我也是單身。」這位老太太總是沒學乖。要五毛，給一塊，吳麗麗的行事作風就是以牙還牙。但老太太也不對，她的口氣就像是把女兒當做廢物利用一樣。
年輕時代的吳麗麗除了喜歡買新衣服，還喜歡在大城市到處玩，有荷蘭的自衛隊保護華人，但她還是覺得印尼終究不是華人的地方，從前祖輩移民到婆羅洲村莊打漁種田買地割橡膠，現在她哥哥白手起家開辦了成衣廠。吳麗麗二十五歲那年，某個親戚要帶女孩去香港嫁人，但要一筆保證金，她沒有錢，到二十九歲才有，那時流行到台灣，她便賣掉身上的黃金，買下一張到台灣的單程機票，那些黃金其實足以在雅加達買間房子。她在力行路的果菜市場時，偶爾會想起童年在那座漁村的回憶，那些罕見的豆類和魚蝦雖然沒搭飛機，竟也跟著風吹或是海流來到這裡，為此她總會在那邊端詳許久，買了回去慢慢講給陳秀珍聽。
先到台灣的遠親姊姊問吳麗麗想嫁到哪裡，吳麗麗毫不猶豫說要去城市，捨棄了內壢、楊梅的可能性。那位姊姊了解吳麗麗的個性，她說：「阿妹，老陳脾氣好，不會打女人，有房子和工作，你如果嫁過去，也沒有公公婆婆要伺候，你想出去工作就工作，自由自在。」衝著這一句自由自在，吳麗麗下注在一個年紀比自己父親還大的男人身上。
她如願嫁給了一間房子，或者說是選擇了一座城市──如果三重也可以算是城市的話。新的國家、新的語言、新的生活。她最高興的地方，就是有了自己家的鑰匙，她以前晚歸不是被鎖在門外就是借住在朋友家，但現在她生病時必須自己照顧自己、煮稀飯之類。初到台灣的八○年代，她的第一份工作是串珠，懷孕時不小心滾下樓梯，拍拍屁股就站了起來，旁邊的人比她本人還緊張。孩子快出生時，她的母親來幫忙坐月子，幫忙到居留期限，接下來就是吳麗麗自己一個人的仗了。她一心一意不讓這孩子吃她受過的苦，所以陳秀珍沒有門禁，小學一年級就有家裡的鑰匙。雖然吳麗麗不知道台灣人怎麼帶小孩，就先看看別人怎麼做，聽說兒童樂園在圓山、動物園在木柵，吳麗麗儘管不會坐公車，但可以打計程車，她還買了傻瓜相機幫女兒做紀念，雖然手指常常放在鏡頭前面。還喜歡摺紙，發現菜市場附近有印刷廠就很高興，工人會留一些邊紙給這位少婦和她的孩子，讓她放進菜籃車裡，母女倆人總是在客廳一起摺紙鶴、飛機、船或皮球之類的東西。一九九八年，吳麗麗看到新聞報導印尼再度暴動，打了越洋電話，妹妹說她那個社區還好，倒是問起台灣的政治情勢，因為她也看到立委在打架，吳麗麗說台灣很和平也很自由。自由是吳麗麗這一生的主題。
陳秋生這一生的主題是回家，從莫名其妙從軍搭船來到台灣開始，他和同鄉掛念的還是家鄉，他們講著閩北話，和印尼華人一樣根本不打算融入當地。他想回家卻回不了，只好折衷在台灣買個家，這時候他已經不年輕了，也沒多少存款。捱到了有辦法回福建老家的時候，得低調地到香港轉機，同行的人全是文盲。這個年長的旅行團就在漂亮的國際機場中轉悠，但他們對那些珠寶皮件不感興趣，酸痛貼布、推拿油、煙酒之類的東西倒是可以考慮。香港雖然是個使用中文的地方，但口語上完全不是這樣，滾滾湧來的廣東話很嚇人，光是要找到正確的登機口就是挑戰。還有，這團大叔一定要跟緊陳秋生，因為他識字，走丟的話就憑那滿口鄉音的普通話，一定找不到路回家的。陳秋生回到家，當年老家給娶的老婆已經另嫁他人，生了好多孩子，他卻還是光棍一個，只能託人給她一點錢，當作補償也當作正式的告別。
陳秋生回到了台灣繼續做餅，他做鹹光餅、麻花、雙胞胎，偶爾也做蛋黃酥。下午五點夜市要開始了，才把附油鍋的不鏽鋼推車從騎樓下面推了出來。他做餅的方式就是含一口水往烤爐噴，需要很大的肺活量，但如果客人看了這副光景絕對不敢買來吃。吳麗麗也警告小孩不准吃，吃了會生病死掉，於是陳秀珍就坐在二樓的辦公室裡面抓飛機，相信吃到一百隻就可以許一個願望，她吃進了很多空氣，結果一直打嗝，不記得自己究竟許願了沒有。
吳麗麗心滿意足地守著這間房子，雖然住一樓常常淹水讓她忙得要死，要把小孩放到椅子上，別讓她泡在水裡玩耍，陳秀珍喜歡看著水面，看著蟑螂屍體輕盈地浮在水面，所有找不到的東西都會浮出來。小孩喜歡玩家家酒，摘人行道從接縫長出來的蒲公英葉當菜，毛茸茸的種子是調味料。吳麗麗覺得很髒，就說你看那些沙子都是人吐出來的痰，她說這些謊都不會笑的。如要要說吳麗麗有什麼夢想，頂多想在後面的街上再買一間公寓。有人甚至會叫吳麗麗「董事長夫人」，她才知道自己住的這排公寓都是陳秋生蓋的。
陳秋生退伍後，做了一份很稀罕的工作──建設公司的董事長，更精確地說是人頭董事長。如果房子在建造過程中發生什麼事，這個人頭就要背負相關法律責任。董事長月領三千，要在各種支票上面簽下自己的名字，就算他收手了，銀行襄理看到陳秋生還是會笑瞇瞇的，哪怕他只是要領個一千元。所以外面的說法是這樣的：這排公寓是陳秋生蓋的。曾有鄰居因為當初預付款的坪數和實際交屋不合，對陳秋生心生不滿。因為當初要隔成兩戶的建築物，硬生生被更改設計成三戶，所以有一戶竟是十三四坪的格局，這證明了陳秋生那時賺的是黑心錢。但他也是人在江湖身不由己，後來再也不蓋房子了。只有在喝了兩杯酒的時候會說，想我當年也是董事長啊。
成家立業。他這一生算是可以結案了。
然後，這間房子將一只前進的齒輪和後退的齒輪組合在一起，讓吳麗麗、陳秋生和陳秀珍這三個人形成了一個家庭。
吳麗麗常常唬弄這個呆頭呆腦的小孩，她曾經神祕地告訴陳秀珍（那是一件全世界小孩聽到都會哭的事）：你是從垃圾堆撿來的。對陳秀珍來說這很有可能，因為爸爸總是在撿破爛，她難過得哇哇大哭，吳麗麗趁機教育說沒關係，只要努力念書就可以找到親生父母。陳秀珍放下心來，雖然她身上沒有斷成兩半的玉佩，但滴血認親應該沒問題。接著晚上的八點檔開演，電視劇的片頭曲驅走了她多舛的身世。但陳秀珍偶爾還是會想起來這件事，就覺得真正的我不在這裡，也許自己真的是某個流落在外的千金小姐。
這位千金小姐和吳麗麗一起做手工，推著推車過街，過年就拿著秋生的大紅包去萬華車站買東西，往那座森林的方向走到公車總站，搭陸光一號，看汽油味公車從滾滾黃沙中駛出。陳秀珍必須為了差價翻來倒去地走，結果鍛鍊出不尋常的肌耐力，差點就要進田徑隊了，這都是折扣的功勞。一落落的成衣裝袋擺在地上，店員得費盡吃奶的力氣扒出適合的尺寸，陳秀珍試穿也很累。這時候吳麗麗幾乎都不買布了，但她也穿不下從前的洋裝（從前她體重只有三十九公斤），那些衣服只是放在衣櫃頂部的行李箱裡面。但別人問她小孩衣服哪裡買的，她就很得意，也不在乎自己穿什麼了，只要小孩穿得漂亮，說標準的國語，只要跟她不一樣就好了。陳秀珍跟吳麗麗一樣喜歡穿新衣服，但買好了還要捱到過年才能穿，在這段時間陳秀珍擁有的小小自由就是思考除夕到初三要先穿哪些衣服，有時她甚至會排到元宵節要穿哪一套去中正紀念堂看花燈。
她五歲時跟著媽媽第一次回到印尼，在親戚家裡面轉來轉去，她看見舅舅的成衣廠在住家二樓，裡面有十幾個工人，四樓還有佣人的小小房間。回台灣的時候帶了很多香料、熱帶水果和海鮮，還有燕窩和魚翅、海參，這些寶貝就放在陳秋生撿來的電視櫃裡面，吳麗麗希望這些補品可以治好小孩的扁桃腺發炎。但海參要反覆煮開，挑魚翅和燕窩也耗眼力，上了年紀以後也不太做了。陳秀珍長大之後才知道，原來不是每個小孩每年都要吃好幾次燕窩。所以我們可以說這個小孩的童年，就差沒吃到熊掌了。
陳秀珍的國語沒有一點腔調，因為她的國語老師是新聞主播，而不是陳秋生或吳麗麗。老師叫她代表學校去演講。演講這種能力就是要在十五分鐘內完成抽題、準備、上台講個三分鐘，務求口若懸河、言之有物，最好還能引經據典，比賽者無不想盡辦法延長思考的時間，我們都知道（這五個字本身就是拖延戰術）當你沒在思考，只要重複就好了。所以每個參賽者上台一鞠躬，無論厲害還是不厲害，開口第一句話都是：校長、老師、各位同學，大家好，我今天要演講的題目是，題目還要重複兩次，這也是爭取背稿的時間。
教人奇怪的是，演講的時候講話是講話，上課的時候講話就是愛講話了。老師有時也會跟吳麗麗告狀，說陳秀珍上課愛講話，但吳麗麗心裡覺得這也沒什麼，小孩子嘛，愛講總比不講好。陳秀珍本人的想法則是：愛講話這件事是對的，不然學校不會有演講比賽，但時機是要拿捏的，上課愛講話是不對的，但只要習題做完就是對的，如果習題做完老師還是不准我講話，那就沒辦法了。她總是想辦法拿很多乖寶寶章，來抵愛講話的叉叉，所以她最後有那麼多乖寶寶章，一半是節省，另一半是因為她根本不乖。
陳秀珍喜歡在每天簽聯絡簿的時候，告訴吳麗麗她今天又有幾個乖寶寶章了。從書套裡面拿出那些毛邊的乖寶寶卡，一個一個數給吳麗麗看，就像吳麗麗做完手工算件數那樣。逐漸增長的數字有種魔力──當陳秀珍知道點數可以換禮物的時候，那魔力突然一下子消褪了，乖寶寶章變成了無聊的東西，像是橡皮擦、鉛筆、腳踏車之類，而她只是為了不想輸給別人而繼續這遊戲。也許她這一生的主題就是把無聊當有趣，這個層次聽起來不高，那是因為和平的時代本來就是這樣，畢竟你有了自由又沒被抓去做兵，人生的主題也只能把無聊當有趣了。
一天自習課，陳秀珍奉命將班上淘汰的印表機送到回收中心，這是老師的一石二鳥之計，這樣一來教室少了愛講話的學生，又能維持班上秩序。陳秀珍最喜歡跑腿，因為上課很無聊。陳秀珍和值日生三個人拉著藍色小拖車經過其他班級教室，喀啦喀啦，刻意讓輪子響得很大聲，穿過鬧鬼的北棟大樓，遠遠地可以望見雜貨店、釣蝦場，還有那片森林，回收中心四周都是荒廢的建築物，玻璃破了，還有兩隻狗在水窪旁邊趴著，一位老伯躺在藤椅上，周圍蒼蠅飛舞，他們害怕老伯已經死了，但轉念一想要是死了的話，他們就可以記嘉獎了！三人大著膽子走過去，看那胸膛有微微的起伏，所以老伯應該是活的。那老人突然發出聲音：「你們第一次報廢嗎？」陳秀珍心想你才報廢啦。老伯站了起來拿鑰匙，大夥抱起印表機跟他走進地下室，地下室很像作戰坑道，又長又直，天花板上倒掛著一群群拇指大的蝙蝠，兩旁放著實驗用的冰箱、燒杯、微波爐和咖啡機……全都積了一層厚厚的灰塵。陳秀珍懷裡的印表機還是溫的，不知道是被太陽晒到，還是剛剛印過東西，她忽然覺得自己就像親手把活生生的一窩小狗送進毒氣室。「阿伯，這個東西可以送給我嗎？」老伯停下腳步，眼神掃過三個小學生，搶過印表機，撕下條碼就推了回去。大家抱著印表機，愉快地步出回收中心，喀啦喀啦，陳秀珍跟同學交換書包把機器帶回家。
吳麗麗拿這對愛撿破爛的父女沒辦法，幸好這兩個人都不長記性，所以很多東西被丟掉了都不知道。她每天晚上準時丟垃圾，因為怕放在巷口會被撿回來，所以她總是提著好幾包垃圾耐心守候。相熟的幾個鄰居說，這裡要蓋新大樓了。吳麗麗滿心期待，想著將來再也不必自己丟垃圾，乾乾淨淨地扔進閘門就好，什麼都看不到。大樓門口還有體面的警衛，每戶人家只能拿著磁卡，出入自己的那層樓。這也代表，她再也不用應付老太太，還有那些見了她就叫大陸妹的鄰居。她可以邀請姊妹來作客，像是那些住在桃園、內壢或公館的。吳麗麗一點一點地丟，直到陳秋生進安養院，不記得自己擁有過些什麼，陳秋生過世之後，吳麗麗已經年近六十，陳秀珍也長大了，吳麗麗決定再也不等了，就請裝潢工人重新粉刷和配電。鄰居趁工人的中午休息時間跑來，在那空洞洞的屋殼裡面張望，一邊對吳麗麗說，快要蓋新房子了，你現在裝潢划不來啊。吳麗麗沒搭腔，等他們走了，就警告工人說，施工的時候一定要關門，不管空氣流通不流通。等吳麗麗再度走進這全新的舊房子，幾乎覺得這是別人的家了。她已經在這座城市住了三十年，遠超過她在印尼的時間，甚至連印尼話都不太會說了，她以為她會永遠待在這個家、這個地方，再也不離開。但她錯了。
陳秀珍帶著DV、相機、錄音筆，陪吳麗麗走進她小時候比演講縣賽的會場大樓，這天她們要到十一樓參加都市更新協調會。那天出席的住戶只有陳秀珍和吳麗麗、住三樓的中年男子和他高齡八十的母親、撿破爛的老太太，屋主的出席比例是百分之三。老太太一看到吳麗麗，立刻跟建設公司的專員說，你知道嗎她是印尼來的，那年輕小伙子卻快步迎了過去，有禮笑說陳媽媽好。至於其他人，不是不關心自己的房子，而是這場會議定在颱風過後隔天的星期五上午九點到十二點，而且每次都沒有結論，最後反方陣營拒絕出席，正方心灰意冷。那名笑臉專員秀出簡報，說明舊屋在更新前為每坪二十五萬，更新後每坪四十萬，再加上興建期三年的漲幅，預計可以升到每坪六十萬。如果你現在住二十坪的房子，將來有的就是二十坪乘以六十萬即一千兩百萬的豪宅，三十坪就是一千八百萬，四十坪就是兩千四百萬，五十坪就三千萬……這數字的魔力讓人一時忘了自己在哪，飄飄然彷彿口袋裡有了好多錢，於是再把錢拿來買房子，錢滾錢，錢生錢，一間變兩間，兩間變四間，一輩子吃香喝辣。錢不能放銀行，這一千兩百萬當然要拿來買房，但這時候每坪不是六十萬，那是預售屋的價格，現在已經來到八十萬了，於是你的錢只夠買一房一廳大套房（十五坪），再扣掉百分之三十的公設，真正能住的只有十點五坪，咦，這樣的話，跟原本比起來不是硬生生砍掉一半了嗎？──一切就像變魔術一樣，兔子變鴿子，鴿子變沒有，你的家變得越來越小，但越來越值錢，到完全看不見的時候，你大概就會成為全世界最高貴的人。八十歲的老奶奶用閩南語發言，她不要，因為現在的家只有十三坪，這樣算下去，將來只有七坪能住。建商不蓋這種房子，她也付不起以八十萬為倍數增加的空間，只要維持現狀就好。奶奶說完，換陳秀珍。麥克風開機了，亮起紅色的燈，她看著全場一臉無聊、事不關己的樣子。主席、長官、董事長、各位官員、鄰居，大家好。她的國語很標準。我叫陳秀珍……
從陳秋生、吳麗麗到陳秀珍，這一家在這座城市過了將近一百年的日子，陳秋生一直都是自己一個人，獨自活過了半個世紀，然後吳麗麗來了二十餘年，陳秀珍比她晚一年報到，三人這麼拼拼湊湊也算有了個整數。雖然陳秋生在身分證上面寫的是民國十年，為了多領些津貼謊報了八歲，其實生肖屬龍，招魂做七的道士得掐指幫他重算年紀。吳麗麗屬羊，年份也對，但護照的出生日期是農曆，忘了換算成公曆。只有陳秀珍的生日，清清楚楚標示這兩人的命運，吳麗麗為了紀念女兒的生日，每年都會買很貴的生日蛋糕，兩個人一起唱生日快樂歌（中文），用傻瓜相機拍下每年吹蠟燭許願的照片，再洗出來放在家庭相本。當你翻開相本，會看到第一張相片是一個臉皺在一起的嬰兒，標籤上面寫著民國年月日和幾點幾分，還有吳麗麗的名字，因為陳秀珍那時根本還沒有名字。這時我突然驚悚地想到，萬一醫院那照片上的根本不是陳秀珍，醫護人員不小心把小孩的手環掛錯怎麼辦，那陳秀珍根本就過錯了人生，認了錯的爸爸媽媽，住進了錯誤的家，這樣的話，她就什麼也不是，也不能站在這天的調解會上面發言了。
原載於《短篇小說》雜誌第七期 2013.6.1
Taipei People-to-be (extract)
By Chen Yu-Chin
Translated by Kevin Nian-Kai Wang
When she was in grade three, Chen Xiu-Zhen’s teacher made them write an essay under the title “My Father”. I don’t think people write using titles like this nowadays, since not everyone has a father and mother, and even if they do, they might not see them often. The teacher was basically giving a hard time to the kids who were brought up by either a single parent, their grandparents, or those who were living with other relatives—asking them what they thought of their fathers and mothers? Why not ask them what they thought ofSpongebob! Returning to our story, Chen Xiu-Zhen at that time had, like most families did, a father and mother, but it was a pity that she had less of an impression of her father than she did of the anchorman of the evening news: the anchorman, at the very least, would always appear at seven o’clock sharp, but her father would always come home after she had slept, as a sliver of light underneath the door. Although this “My Father” essay was not her first writing assignment, it was the first where she felt she had nothing to say. Good thing this was a take-home assignment, so she could ask her mother later. Her mother, Wu Li-Li, was not Taiwanese, and knew hardly any more Chinese than a third-grader did, but she said something full of wisdom, and this was something all serious novelists were likely to be doing: See how others write.
Opening up a compendium of model essays, Chen Xiu-Zhen quickly found a written image of a father, and copied it into her essay book. She felt worried whenever she thought about it the next week, because not one word of what she wrote was real—it was all copied from a book. Yet the teacher not only gave the essay a high grade, he also awarded it with many Taipei People-to-be (extract)good student stamps. With this, Chen Xiu-Zhen realized that reality can be fictionalized. We can therefore say that this girl began writing novels at the age of ten, and the teacher was actually in the right in assigning this topic, because he understood the art of the novel. If all teachers knew this from the start, all kids would without a doubt be very happy, since they could write all their secrets down, and then laugh them off with a “Ha ha, fooled you,” and even earn lots of good student stamps in the process.
Wu Li-Li had studied with a private tutor for some years when she was Chen Xiu-Zhen’s age, but she had long since forgotten the Chinese she picked up at the time, and had to relearn everything when she came to Taiwan. A foreigner in a foreign land, she only had an old garbage collecting woman to talk to; but often before Wu Li-Li had spoke three sentences with the neighbors, this old woman would interrupt, “You know, she’s from Indonesia.” One day, when Chen Xiu-Zhen was having a nice chat with her classmates, out popped the old woman from the garbage dump, and asked, “Do you know your father collects trash for a living?” This was the first time Chen Xiu-Zhen faced such brazen and crude malice in her life, and she didn’t know how to hit back; but her teacher often said she did a good job at reworking sentences, so she said, “Do you know you collect trash for a living?” I don’t think Chen Xiu-Zhen knew the power of this sentence at the time, but she might have realized the power of repetition earlier than other children, throwing the problem of values back to the person who brought it up in the first place; the old woman was thus beaten by her own malice.
People not familiar with Wu Li-Li often said to her, “Missus, I don’t think you’re Taiwanese.” To which she would reply, “So what do you say?” Following would ensue a string of guesses: she was from Hong Kong, she was from Guangdong, she was enthic Hakka, and Wu Li-Li would become Hongkongese, Guandongnese, or Hakka. But Hong Kong people speak Cantonese, Guangdong people don’t speak the Hakka language, and some Hakka people speak the Southern Min language; strictly speaking, Wu Li-Li was an Indonesian Hakka-speaking Chinese immigrant whose ancestors originated from Mei County in Guangdong. Wu Li-Li often spoke of “us Chinese” in general, and she told Chen Xiu-Zhen: You are a child born to an Indonesian Chinese immigrant and a former soldier from Mainland China; this makes you a mixed-blood child, and mixed-blood children are especially smart and cute because their parents have different genes. Because Chen Xiu-Zhen found this to be in her benefit, she strutted into school the next day and proudly told her classmates that she was mixed-blood, and everyone thought that she knew a lot, because she knew something her teacher hadn’t taught them. In order not to be one-upped by her, everyone asked their parents where they were from when they went back home. Simply saying that they were mixed-blood Taipei people was not enough, since one could still distinguish between Taipei City and Taipei County, and Taipei County could be further broken down into Tucheng and Xinzhuang; Southerners might have mixed Nantou and Taixi blood, and even if some of them had blood that mixed across Taiwan’s central mountain range, no-one else had blood that mixed across the Pacific Ocean, so Chen Xiu-Zhen’s first place status was thus cemented, which of course deserved bragging rights.
Now we should talk about the path these mixed-blood children took when they left school, which had a foul odor about it, since both sides of the road were mostly patches where people grew vegetables, and at least some fertilizer was inevitable. There were even semi-open public toilets right under the road bridge, which were just shacks built using wavy sheets of plastic with no doors, much like coffins opened up and propped up straight. Chen Xiu-Zhen always thought: How could you go to the toilet with your back to the road and no other protection? If you really needed to go, you ought to at least squat on a sewer opening behind a car. But the men who emerged from these public toilets always seemed well at ease, not afraid the least that someone would stab them from behind. Chen Xiu-Zhen gradually found such nonchalance to be quite attractive, and held them in respect. The vegetable patches were demarcated simply with mattress springs, and the entrances were jumbled patches of wooden boards, much like a tangram puzzle. In addition, the path had a shrimp farm where visitors could fish for shrimp, a factory, and a mom-and-pop store which served children exclusively, and where the students would gamble, buy snacks, and sip on packets of winter melon punch. Beyond the road bridge, where a few apartment blocks rose out of the ground, was where the groups of children would disperse and go home. Between the apartment blocks were construction sites surrounded by iron mesh fences with tall grasses growing from the ground, forming a perfect place to play hide-and-seek. When the children got out of school early, such as after their monthly exams, and didn’t want to head directly back home, they would pull apart the wooden boards at the vegetable patches, silently creep past the black and yellow dogs keeping guard, and head toward the deep and dark forest behind the vegetable patches. Here the mighty ferns rose up as high as trees, and bamboos knit themselves into close patches; footsteps on the dry bamboo leaves would produce “shh-shh” sounds, and if you looked up, you couldn’t’ see the sky. In the forest was an old building consisting of iron mesh and a traditional three-part house built with red bricks; election banners were spread on the ground to collect rain water, and all those “We Need Your Vote” slogans and photos of smiling candidates were coated with mud. Here it was cool and beautiful, with no sight of the school nor the apartments, and they would open their eyes to look around, fearful that someone might spot a dumped corpse, but also highly anticipating that, if there were a dumped corpse, they might race to collect a prize far greater than handing in lost money. In the middle of the forest was a little shrine to the land god, and these children would respectfully offer prayers to the land god, so that their misdeeds would not be discovered by the grownups. The forest was actually very large, and Chen Xiu-Zhen and her playmates only ever managed to cover a small part. Further on was a slaughterhouse, a store selling bamboo, wood and tiles, a red-light district, and a village without running water or electricity. In fact, this forest was a long path called the Erchong Flood Diversion Channel, which had been long neglected by urban planners. It wasn’t until decades later, when the Metro went past the area, that the forest was leveled to a vast tract of land and rubble; only then did Chen Xiu-Zhen realize that even if she ran, it would have taken her at least an hour to cross this forest.
When she was ten years old, Wu Li-Li and her family had to flee from the troubles, and moved from a village in Borneo to live with relatives in the big city, and whatever she wore and used was always old stuff handed down to her from her relatives. At that time, fleeing was a relatively simple task: you just had to pack up your pots and pans and clothes, and ride a truck for a very long time. Wu Li-Li’s family was one of the luckier ones, since the family at the very least had stuck together. When she grew up, Wu Li-Li talked to her coworkers at the clothes factory, and some had to either gather up bits and pieces of their father’s body by themselves, or had their entire families wiped out, save for an uncle and a grandmother. During this time, Wu Li-Li went to school in Jakarta, and those without a place to live would stay by the roadside and the temporary shelter. Sanitary conditions were terrible, and every day someone would die, and their stretchers covered in white cloth would be placed in the middle of the road. The temporary shelter was only as big as a small park, but it was packed with hundreds of people. Fellow Chinese immigrants who had also fled and were now reduced to begging would beg for her to give something, but she had no money at all to offer. When she was able to earn money, she would buy pretty cloths for the tailor to make a dress for her; otherwise, she would buy gold, which was something that could actually be taken away when fleeing. Platinum would be even better: Chen Chiu-Sheng’s wedding ring was made of platinum. Diamonds she would rather not have, since when fleeing diamonds weren’t as easy to pawn as gold. This fact speaks to Wu Li-Li’s mindset, that she was always ready to flee, even when she was in another country.
In addition to buying new clothes, the young Wu Li-Li liked to travel and play all around the city. Although the Chinese were protected by the Dutch defense forces, she nevertheless felt that Indonesia was not the place for Chinese people, even though her people had been there since they came to Borneo to fish, farm, buy land, and harvest rubber, and up to now when her elder brother established a clothes factory all by himself. When she was twenty-five, a relative took her and tried to marry her off to a Hong Kong person, but it required a deposit, and she didn’t have the money. Not until she was twenty-nine did she have enough money, and by that time it was the trend to be married off to Taiwan. Thus she sold off all the gold she had (which was actually enough for her to buy a house in Jakarta), and bought a one-way ticket to Taiwan. When she was in the market on Lixing Road, she would sometimes remember her times in the little fishing village, and although those rare beans and fish didn’t take the plane, they nevertheless found their way Taiwan, either by wind or by sea current. Thus she would often contemplate for a long time, buy some, and head back home to tell Chen Xiu-Zhen about it.
When she was asked by a distant older relative who had been married off to Taiwan before her, Wu Li-Li said, without a shade of doubt, that she wanted to go to the city, and thus gave up on all the possibilities in Neili and Yangmei. The relative understood Wu Li-Li’s personality, and said, “Sis, old Chen is good natured, doesn’t hit women, and has a house and a job. If you marry him, you don’t have in-laws you need to take care of, and you have the freedom to work if you want to.” It was this one word, “freedom”, that led Wu Li-Li to cast her lots with a man older than her father.
As she had wanted, she married into a house, or rather, she chose a city—that is, if one could call Sanchong a city. A new country, a new language, a new life. The thing she felt most happy about was that now she had a key to her own house, since when she used to come home late, she would either be locked outside or had to take shelter at a friend’s house. But now, when she fell ill, she would have to take care of herself, and cook her porridge all by herself. When she first came to Taiwan in the eighties, her first job was stringing beads; once, when she was pregnant, she fell down the stairs by accident, but simply dusted herself off and stood back up, and the people around her were even more nervous than she herself was. When she was about to give birth, her mother came and helped to take care of her after the birth. Her mother stayed as long as her visa would allow her, and then it was all Wu Li-Li on her own. She was determined not to let her child suffer the way she had, so Chen Xiu-Zhen did not have a curfew, and had her own set of keys to the house when she was in the first grade. Wu Li-Li had no idea how the Taiwanese brought up their children, so she would watch and learn. She heard that the fair grounds were at Yuanshan, and the zoo was at Muzha; even though she didn’t know how to take the bus, she could still hail a taxi, and she even bought a simple camera so that she could take photos for her daughter as a sort of souvenir, although the lens was often blocked by her finger. She also liked origami, and she was thrilled to find a printing factory near the market. The workers there would leave some scrap paper for the young wife to take home in her shopping cart, and she and her daughter would often fold paper cranes, airplanes, boats and balls in the living room. In 1998, Wu Li-Li saw on the news that riots broke out again in Indonesia, and made a long distance call back home. Her younger sister said that their community was O.K., but she asked about Taiwan’s political situation, since she also saw on the TV Taiwanese legislators having a fist fight. Wu Li-Li replied that Taiwan had both peace and freedom. Freedom was a running theme in Wu Li-Li’s life.
Wu Li-Li brought her child up as she was doing handicrafts and pushing her stroller across the street. The happiest time she had was during Chinese New Year, when she would take the money Chen Chiu-Sheng gave her, and hop down to Wanhua train station to buy new clothes. With all the bags of clothes piled up on the floor, the shopkeeper had to use all his might to find a suitable size, and Chen Xiu-Zhen also grew tired trying out all the clothes. By this time Wu Li-Li almost never bought her own cloths for tailors to make into dresses, yet she could not fit into her old dresses anymore, which lay quietly in the luggage sitting atop her closet. But she would be proud whenever someone else asked her where she bought clothes for her child, and she wouldn’t care about what she herself wore, as long as her child wore the prettiest clothes and spoke articulate Mandarin, not like herself.
When she was five, Chen Xiu-Zhen went to Indonesia with her mother for the first time, and wandered around her relatives’ homes. She saw her uncle’s clothes factory on the second floor of his home, with about a dozen workers inside, and also a small servant’s quarters on the fourth floor. When they went back to Taiwan, they brought a lot of spices, tropical fruits and seafood, and also delicacies like bird’s nest, shark fin and sea cucumber. These delicacies were put inside the television cabinet Chen Chiu-Shen brought home from the street, and Wu Li-Li hoped that they could cure her child’s tonsillitis. But sea cucumbers needed to be constantly stirred, and picking out shark’s fin and bird’s nest was hard on the eyes, so as she grew older she couldn’t do it as well. It was only after she grew up that Chen Xiu-Zhen realized that not all children were able to eat bird’s nest several times a year. We can say that the only thing lacking in her early life was that she never ate bear’s paws.
Chen Xiu-Zhen’s Mandarin had not the slightest accent, since her Mandarin teacher was a news anchor, instead of Chen Chiu-Sheng or Wu Li-Li. When each participant in the speech contest took their bow, they would invariably begin with “The principal, my teachers, my fellow students, good day to you all,” no matter if they were good or not. What was strange was that being talkative in a speech contest was a good thing, while being talkative in class was a bad thing. In order to cancel out all the bad marks she got for being talkative in class, Chen Xiu-Zhen would always strive to get as many good student stamps as she could, and she ended up being the student with the most good student stamps in the entire class. Part of this was that she saved up on these stamps, but another part was because she was not a good student at all. After school, Chen Xiu-Zhen would tell Wu Li-Li how many good student stamps she got that day, much like how Wu Li-Li would count how many handicrafts she had completed. There was a magical power in these gradually climbing numbers—but when Chen Xiu-Zhen learned that these stamps could be exchanged for presents, this magical power suddenly vanished, and she at that instant grew up.
Vermont Studio Center
