{"product_id":"brothers-isbn-9781400097296","title":"Brothers","description":"At the height of China’s Cultural Revolution a powerful general fathered two sons. Tan was born to the general’s wife and into a life of comfort and luxury. His half brother, Shento, was born to the general’s mistress, who threw herself off a cliff in the mountains of Balan only moments after delivering her child. Growing up, each remained ignorant of the other’s existence. In Beijing, Tan enjoyed the best schools, the finest clothes, and the prettiest girls. Shento was raised on the mountainside by an old healer and his wife until their deaths landed him in an orphanage, where he was always hungry, alone, and frightened. Though on divergent roads, each brother is driven by a passionate desire—one to glorify his father, the other to seek revenge against him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeparated by distance and opportunity, Tan and Shento follow the paths that lie before them, while unknowingly falling in love with the same woman and moving toward the explosive moment when their fates finally merge. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBrothers\u003c\/i\u003e, by bestselling memoirist Da Chen, is a sprawling, dynamic family saga, complete with assassinations, love affairs, narrowly missed opportunities, and the ineluctable fulfillment of destiny.“From Shaolin to the sugarloaf mountains of Gwangdong to Tiananmen Square and the skyscrapers of New York: an epic novel that neatly distills modern Chinese history. Da Chen’s elegantly written novel ends on the promise of redemption. . . .” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Within this sweeping, ambitious, historical novel, there is a beautifully wrought story of young men coming of age, related to each other but strangers, and heading toward a breathtaking collision.” —Ron Nyswaner,author of \u003ci\u003eBlue Days, Black Nights: A Memoir\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This book is fantastic in every sense of the word—a saga of China that is at once exotic and universal, an epic tale of destiny entwined with history. The description of Shento’s birth is one of the most original beginnings of a novel I have ever read, and it launches the novel with the generous imagination that is evident throughout. . . . Chinese family life, military tradition, and the steaming violence on the Vietnamese border are all depicted with the wide strokes of a great artist creating a timeless tale.” —Laura Shaine Cunningham, author of\u003ci\u003e Sleeping Arrangements\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBeautiful Bodies\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBrothers\u003c\/i\u003e begins as if in a dream. And like a dream you are captured by its first eerie lines: ‘To tell the tale of my birth, I must start not from the beginning, but from the end to my beginning. I was born twice, really.’ This is Shento speaking. His brother Tan speaks next. And an epic novel evolves out of their alternating accounts, with all the rich and exquisite detail you expect from such an artful writer as Da Chen. He deals in big emotions: revenge, love (both graphic and romantic), torture, and fealty. He gives us China, from the ordinary soul to the ruling elite. He takes you from Mao to Tiananmen Square and then beyond. If you’re in the mood for a good atmospheric read, you won’t find a better one.” —John Bowers, professor of creative writing, Columbia University, and author of \u003ci\u003eThe Colony\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eIn the Land of Nyx\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eStonewall Jackson: Portrait of a Soldier\u003c\/i\u003eDa Chen lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with his wife and children.chapter 1    1960    BALAN, SOUTHWEST CHINA        To tell the tale of my birth, I must start not from the beginning,   but from the end to my beginning. I was born twice, really. First   when I tore through my mother's dark passage. The second time when   the old medicine man saved me.    The young woman who gave birth to me meant to end it all, not just   her life, but also mine, right at the moment of my sunrise. She was   in a hurry to leap off the cliff atop Mount Balan, but I outraced her   swollen legs and slipped out of her womb just as she struggled toward   the edge of that fateful precipice. One was left to wonder why she   did it, making herself a myth, leaping off the zenith of the mountain   with me still attached to her by the rope of life, the entangled   umbilical cord.    I burst through before she burst off, born in the air, hovering over   it all. I imagine her flying off that rugged cliff like an eagle   gliding downward, free from her nest, her moorings, her sins, or her   final lament, to be forgotten by the wind that fluttered her youthful   hair up as she rushed down. We, the twinned and wingless angels,   free-fell. But the unthinkable happened. The hand of destiny   intervened. I, the wailing newborn, falling in the wake of my mother   along the face of the vine-crawling cliff, was suddenly caught in the   branches of a tea tree growing out of a cave's mouth.    In one slow-motion second that could have lasted a lifetime, the   umbilical cord snapped. Arrested by the two springy branches, I let   out a frightful scream--my ode to the strenuous tea tree. My   mother--the angel of my birth, my death--and I parted in the air,   blood aspill, splattering the tea leaves. I bounced, suspended aloft   by the branches of the blessed tree. She plunged farther, a   diminishing dot of herself, then vanished into the secrecy of the   valley below, never to be seen again. Why she chose to sing her death   song this early in her life, I would only come to know later. For   now, I was left dangling, as dangling as one could be.    But fate intervened once more. Grace descended upon me in the shape   of a scrawny village medicine man, old and faithful. When he heard me   crying and saw me caught on the wind-blasted cliff, he climbed down   to fetch me as a monkey would. Fortunately, he was as nimble as one,   for his vocation dictated that he roam the mountain ranges from peak   to peak, from valley to valley, and from cave to cave in search of   the rare ginseng and scarce swallows' spit only to be found in the   capricious spots reached by birds.    He flung himself down, breaking through tree branches, missing a few   footholds, nearly dashing himself to death. But on that given day   heaven allowed only one death. Breathlessly, he got hold of me. That   was the moment I call my second birth, one given me by the grace of   Buddha through the hand of one who had done his virtuous deeds day   and night, caring for a village full of sick and poor. I say Buddha's   grace and it was rightly so, for had another man heard me and, Buddha   willing, found his heart wanting to save the little bundle, whether   he was a virtuous man or not, he might never have done what the   medicine man did, for in the old man's heart rang a lonesome bell of   childlessness. The cry I made, the cry he heard, as he would later   recount, was that cry deep in the recesses of his soul. It was not   just a cry of any boy, but that of his own blood.    He was inches away when a blast of wind nearly took me away from it   all again. But, one arm holding to a tree root, he reached for me,   catching my tiny leg just in time to swing me into the crook of his   arm. To save time, to save me, he did what no one dared do before,   sliding hundreds of feet down the steep cliff, scraping his knees,   his heels, nearly breaking his bones, then running home to his wife   of forty years before the nocturnal mountain cats could smell our   bloody trail.    The goat was chased and the milk milked. His wife fed me the milk as   if it came from her own breasts. Then and there they named me Shento,   the mountaintop, the zenith.    \"He will soar for the sky like our sacred Mount Balan,\" Baba said.    \"And he will rise toward the heaven like the spirit of our ancient   soul,\" Mama said. \"Can we really keep him as our own?\"    \"Of course. He is a gift from our beloved mountain, a reward for the   deeds we have rendered.\"    \"And he looks like he belongs in my arms,\" Mama crooned, stroking my cheek.    So ends the tale of my birth and begins the story of my life.        The sun waned and the moon waxed and I gradually grew to be a sturdy   village boy with an appetite of a child three years older. Mama fed   me with an adult-sized bamboo spoon. No birdie song needed to be sung   to get me to eat. I would chow down one spoonful after another until   I gave out little burps. My favorite food was sweet sticky rice cake.   In our poor village where the staple diet was yams, sweet rice was   rare and precious. Baba walked miles to visit patients in remote   villages to earn extra money for those precious rice cakes. He went   to the ancient forest, chopped down the finest bamboo poles, and made   a sturdy playpen big enough for me to crawl and sleep in. Baba put   the pen near his desk in the infirmary. With Mama's assistance, he   saw his patients, dispensed advice, and performed acupuncture with me   nearby.    Against one wall in the infirmary leaned a massive medicine cabinet   containing drawers of herbal medicine that Baba sold to his patients   by the ounce, and some by the pinch. The drawers were labeled with   arcane Chinese inscriptions that only doctors versed in the classics   would recognize. I startled Baba one day at two-and-a-half years by   naming and locating ten of the most common herbs. By three I could   name more than half of them. When I was four I pointed out one day   that Baba had pinched the wrong herb for a particular prescription.   The correction, Baba said, saved the pregnant woman from having a   miscarriage. Baba and Mama were convinced that I was no ordinary boy.    From then on, Baba read me classic medicinal texts and schooled me to   memorize acupuncture points.    One night, lying in bed before falling asleep, I overheard Baba   whisper to Mama, \"Our son is destined to be the most gifted doctor   these mountains will ever know. Imagine how many cures he might find   for diseases with his extraordinary mind.\"    \"No!\" Mama retorted.    \"No? Why would you disagree with that?\"    \"His destiny is beyond your narrow wish,\" Mama said. \"One day he will   lead thousands and rule millions.\"    \"Aren't you a bit too ambitious, my dear wife?\" I heard Baba say.    \"Not at all. Don't you see? He suffered tragedy at birth, not unlike   many emperors who rose from nothing to the golden throne.\"    Baba was quiet for a moment. \"I did read somewhere that tragedy   breeds extraordinary men.\"    \"Yes. Unfortunately those great men were never entitled to much happiness.\"    \"Oh, I much rather he be ordinary and live happily and long enough to   see us die,\" said Baba.    \"It is too late. His destiny began when he took his first breath off   that cliff. It is already great fortune for us to have him for as   long as our good Buddha allows.\"    That night, I broke the rule and snuggled into their bed, sleeping   between them till the sun rose. But no matter how often they talked   about me, they never came near the subject of my birth parents. It   was as if once that taboo were broken, the ghost from my past would   come to haunt our nearly perfect though simple life.        Tan    chapter 2    1960    BEIJING        I was born the son of General Ding Long and the only grandchild of   two influential families in China: the Longs, a banking dynasty, and   the Xias, a military powerhouse. The two prominent families were as   different as night and day.    Grandfather Xia had no education. But he walked with Chairman Mao in   the Long March, a pedigree that won him the lifelong post of   commander in chief of China's navy, air force, and army.    Grandfather Long, an Oxford-trained Communist economist, an oxymoron   in itself, was the governor of the Bank of China. His brothers had   long prospered in the capitalist colony of Hong Kong as bankers. A   sophisticated financier who spoke Parisian French, perfect formal   Japanese, and English with an Oxford accent, Grandfather Long   preferred Savile Row-tailored suits, Cuban cigars, fine wines,   Beethoven, and Shakespeare--some minor sins picked up in his   university days at Oxford back in the thirties. He was the only   Chinese national during the Cold War years to receive, on a daily   basis, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, and, his   favorite, the brownish-looking Financial Times of the United Kingdom.    In keeping with his image as China's top banker, he was given a   classic model Mercedes-Benz, a liveried chauffeur, and China's only   chef trained in Western cuisine from the kitchen of Beijing Hotel.   Grandfather Long was, after all, head of one of the biggest banks in   the world, second only to the almighty Federal Reserve of the United   States. The balance sheet said it all. The Bank of China owned the   country with all its mountains, rivers, air rights in the sky,   mineral rights under the ocean floor, and everything else in between.    Grandfather Xia may have been a five-star general, but he was still   grubby and rough, preferring to sleep on hard solid wood and a carved   wooden pillow. Soft, spongy mattresses with springs made his back   ache and shoulders sore. He often wore a pair of straw sandals, his   feet's best friends during his youthful days as a messenger when he   had walked rocky mountains and waded rivers for the great Chairman   Mao during the infancy of China's Communist Party in Yenan, of the   Shaanxi Province. He had a confessed northern peasant mentality and   didn't trust flushing toilets, preferring to use night pots instead.   He said that fine cigarettes were an insult to real smokers such as   he, whose lung cells could only be awakened by a special type of   foul-smelling tobacco from a little village near the mountains of the   Himalayas; all other smoke only put his lungs to sleep.    His favorite daily wear, if he had a choice, were hand-stitched baggy   linen shorts. For entertainment, nothing was better than the   yee-yee-yaa-yaaing Peking Opera that he hummed along with in a   guttural, off-tune voice that easily scared children. But the most   shocking was his daily diet of roasted bull testicles, raw oysters,   pork knuckles, and fish heads--the greasy handiwork of his private   chef, a distant cousin who was originally a country butcher from his   village. Everything was served in big pots and plates, in great   quantities and variety, country-style home cooking, each meal a   little feast that could have fed a village. He would sample each   dish, burp, and give the rest to his staff, guards, and their   families, the way emperors did a dynasty back. He was a king in his   own court, leading the biggest army in the history of the world--10   million soldiers at peacetime, which could easily double or triple   from the reserve with the hint of any war. His favorite joke was that   if anyone were to cause any trouble, all China needed to do was have   all their men pee and their enemy would be flooded in a nasty deluge.    As different as they were, Grandfather Long and Grandfather Xia   formed the north and south poles of Chairman Mao's feudal-like reign   over the most populated nation on earth. Grandfather Long kept Mao   from going bankrupt, at least on the books. The bank reserves were   higher than ever with loans aplenty. He supported every ideological   movement initiated by Mao, and gave him all his financial might.   Grandfather Xia kept the chairman from going out of power. And if   there were any attempts on his life, Mao never heard about it because   Grandfather took care of them the old-fashioned way: He made them   disappear.    My two grandfathers never saw eye to eye, even at the most intimate   meetings with the aging chairman. They quarreled constantly like   schoolchildren. The fights were legendary and sometimes even came   close to fists. Mao's only comment on their bickering was that they   reminded him of his younger third wife, the notorious Madame Mao.    Like all the emperor's trusted men, my grandfathers were loved by   their ultimate leader and rewarded lavishly. They had mansions in   Zhong Nan Hai, the elegant prime location in the capital city of   Beijing, surrounded by scenic mountains and lakes. Their residences   were walled, protected from the eyes of ordinary people and the din   of the congested streets. Fashionably furnished vacation homes were   also built and given to them on the long, deserted sandy beaches of   Beidaihe, a government resort near the China Sea. A private train   with sleeping compartments and mah-jongg rooms, staffed by a culinary   chef, scurried them back and forth from the city and country as they   wished.    By virtue of their ranks, they were both given the same government   rations, the same number of servants, the same color TV, and an equal   number of phone lines. Naturally, their properties were located on   the same strip of land, constructed in the same style, and decorated   in like manner, down to identical furnishings. Chairman Mao's   nonpreferential treatment meant the two men were always in each   other's shadow, at work or in leisure, neighbors in the city and at   their beach retreats. Their relationship was so uncompromising that   one refused to let the other enjoy himself and followed him around to   the different locations just to irritate the other with his presence.    All things nonetheless went well except for one tiny consequence that   took root, grew, and blossomed in their backyard like a willow seed   dropped off by a passing swan. Hua, which meant \"flower,\" was   Grandfather Xia's only daughter. A concert pianist, she was   beautiful, shy, and artistic. Grandfather Long, the banker, used to   call her a pretty flower growing out of a pile of manure.    Grandfather Long's only son, Ding Long, was a young general in the   army. Every chance they had, ever since they were young, Hua Xia and   Ding Long had snuck into the garden separating the two homes and   played together. In the summer, when the families vacationed by the   sea, the two kids raked clams and caught crabs together whenever   their fathers weren't around.Author of Colors of the Mountain","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305329643749,"sku":"NP9781400097296","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400097296.jpg?v=1767723113","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/brothers-isbn-9781400097296","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}