The Boat to Redemption Read Online Free Page B

all he’d been left with was a sofa he’d
     once kept in his office. Now he sat on that sofa, a memento of the power he’d once wielded, and slowly grew accustomed to
     life on the water, treating the barge as if it were the shore and its cabin as his office. The second half of his life was
     like a rubbish heap, with no place to hide beyond the river and the barge. In his later years, he and the shore parted company,
     and on those rare occasions when we approached Milltown, he’d stick his head out to take a peek at the shore, but then I’d
     walk over and close the porthole.Other people could appreciate the sights of Milltown all they wanted, but not him. He’d get vertiginous and complain about
     his eyesight, saying that the land was moving, like flowing water. I knew all about his fears. The shore wasn’t moving; what
     moved were his shameful memories. After so many years had passed, his frail, ageing body had split into two halves, one having
     grudgingly fled to the water, the other remaining for ever on the riverbank, where people no longer punished him yet had forgotten
     to forgive him; they had tied him to a pillar of shame.
    I could not free my father from that pillar of shame, and this brought him his greatest torment and me my greatest heartache.

Separation
    A FTER THE incident with the investigative team, Father remained ashore for three months, the first two in the attic of the Spring Breeze
     Inn, where he was kept in isolation while being checked out. A metal door with three locks separated the attic from the rest
     of the hotel; the keys were kept by three members of the team, two men and a woman who occupied rooms on the second floor.
     An endless stream of problems arose for my father, beginning with his education and as much of his work history as could be
     verified. He gave them the names of two schoolmates who could testify on his behalf, a man and a woman. No one knew the whereabouts
     of the man, while the woman had suffered a nervous breakdown. As for testimonials from the White Fox Logging Camp, where he’d
     worked for many years, the two individuals whose names he provided had died in a forest fire. And the person who had vouched
     for his acceptance into the Party was particularly suspect. A man of considerable renown, his reputation was badly tainted.
     Known as the most notorious rightist in the provincial capital, he had been sent to a labour-reform farm, where he was generally
     recalcitrant until the day he mysteriously disappeared.
    Even Father was surprised to learn how dubious his ownpersonal history was. ‘Who are you?’ the investigative team asked repeatedly. ‘Just who are you anyway?’
    Eventually, they managed to wear him down. ‘Is there some sort of mental illness that can cause a person to remember everything
     wrong?’ he asked earnestly.
    They rejected the implication. ‘Don’t try to turn this into a health issue,’ they said. ‘No neurologist can solve your problems.
     Seeing one would be a waste of time. You need to do some serious soul-searching.’
    No therapy for him. So the soul-searching began, and over time he began to see the error of his ways. It wasn’t his memory
     that had let him down, it was his fate. A dark path lay in front of him, one with no visible end, and he could no longer validate
     himself.
    As rumours flew around Milltown about how my father had created a false identity to fool the Party, the wall outside our house
     began to fill up with angry graffiti: ‘ LIAR … ENEMY AGENT … SCAB … BUFFOON .’ Someone even labelled him a secret agent for Chiang Kai-shek and the US imperialists. Mother, who seemed to be on the brink
     of a nervous breakdown, went to the General Affairs Building to speak with Party leaders. That had the desired effect, for
     they assured her that she would not be implicated, that even though she and Father shared a bed, they could take divergent
     political stances. So she was still on safe ground when