Journey Across the Four Seas (22 page)

I spotted Hok-Ching the moment I entered the hotel lobby. He was lounging in a sofa chair, all dressed up in suit and tie, a martini glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Upon seeing me, he stubbed out his cigarette and walked briskly toward me. He reached out for an embrace, but I pushed him back so that he wouldn’t squash the baby between us. We stared into each other’s eyes for a few seconds to find the persons we’d left behind four months ago. His long face was the same, but I know mine had undergone a rebirth. Childbirth had sharpened my features. The soft childish lines were gone, and the person I saw in the mirror was a woman, not a girl anymore. I’d also started putting my hair up in a matronly chignon.

Hok-Ching beamed at the baby. Having slept all the way from
Bangkok
, Agnes was wide-awake. Her bright eyes roamed about, and her arms were squirming to free themselves from the blanket. Hok-Ching peeled away the layer and found his finger caught in the baby’s grip. He brought the little hand to his lips and kissed it.

My heart warmed, although not enough to thaw the ice. "I thought you were going to meet me at the airport," I said.

"Uncle told me he was meeting you there. So I decided to stay on this end just in case he missed you. Oh look, she won’t let go of my finger. She knows I’m her father."

Uncle and Aunt oohed and aahed over the baby, and the subject was conveniently dropped. Uncle drove us back to his apartment, where we were to stay until we decided on our next move. I wanted to pounce on my husband with the many questions on my mind, but in the presence of others I had to hold them in till bedtime. As soon as the bedroom door closed, my worries frothed over. We were jobless and homeless, and the money from my brother’s gold bullions was running out. What were we going to do?

"We don’t have to depend on your brother’s gold to stay alive," Hok-Ching said with a shrug. "I’ve written Baba. He hasn’t replied yet, but I’m sure he’ll find a solution. If he can be in charge of the economy of
China
, he can surely take care of my economy." He chuckled at his clever statement. "Come on, let’s not worry about money. This is our first night together."

I started to grill him about his relationship with Yolanda, but it soon became exceedingly difficult to get my words out while I was being smothered with kisses.

During the next few days, the fiancé whom I thought had died came back to life. Hok-Ching was once again the carefree and playful man whom I’d dated in
Chungking
. Instead of standing guard over me behind locked doors, he took me out every night. Uncle and Aunt were all too happy to watch over Agnes, and after a month of "sitting," I was ready for action. Hok-Ching, who had scouted out the best restaurants, introduced me to his culinary finds. This period could have been a sort of honeymoon for us, as we never had one after our wedding—if not for the intrusion of the third party by the name of Yolanda.

Our first threesome get-together took place at Chanticleer, a western restaurant with a giant rooster hanging above its entrance. The moment we walked in, a hoarse voice shouted, "Over here!" It could be only one person, for I’d never met another who sounded as if she had a piece of sandpaper stuck in her throat. Yolanda was beckoning to us. My husband disappeared from my side and I heard him say, "Have you been waiting long?"

Yolanda stood up. A pang of envy hit me. While my waistline had expanded from childbearing, hers was still the coquettish figure of a girl. She showed it off shamelessly in a tight cheongsam of bright, bold peonies. Her long lashes fluttered over her big round lychee eyes, but alas, her skin was also as dark and rough as that of a lychee. No amount of facial powder could hide that.

Yolanda swept her eyes over me and exclaimed, "Flora, you look prosperous! You must have eaten a lot of good food when you were pregnant. My mother ate three eggs a day when she was carrying me. The egg white was supposed to make my skin smooth and white."

"She must have eaten thousand-year-old eggs," I said. Yolanda was asking for it—her complexion was closer to the black ash-cured eggs than the fresh ones.

After an awkward pause, she resumed her eyelash batting. "My brother Hok-Ching missed you terribly," she crooned.

When did he become your brother? I thought to myself.

The waiter came over. "Mr. Wang, Miss Kwok, what kept you away so long? Would you like the usual today?"

My heart felt the slam of a hammer. How many times had they eaten here for the waiter to know them by name? I stole glances at the two, but they didn’t seem the least disturbed.

"Give us an extra large borscht," Yolanda said. "We have one more person today."

"Their borscht here is authentic," Hok-Ching explained to me. "The owner is originally from
Shandong
, where he learned to cook from the Russians. The steaks here are also excellent. The chef really knows what ‘rare’ means."

"I hate beef," I said gruffly. Being Buddhist, Mother would never let me touch the meat of a sacred cow.

The waiter brought me a menu. My eyes swam over it. Food was the least of my interests when Hok-Ching and Yolanda were behaving like a couple, with me as the extra.

"You should try the pepper steak at Ruby," Yolanda said to me. "It doesn’t taste like steak at all. I bet even you would eat it. It’s tender and smothered with a spicy sauce. My mouth waters just to think of it. Remember that?" she said, and elbowed Hok-Ching on the arm.

"Ruby? Isn’t that a nightclub?" I heard myself say. This conversation was feeling more and more unreal.

"Oh yes, it’s got a beautiful dance floor, and a very good band. But Hok-Ching thinks the music they play is too slow." Another flutter of lashes. "He prefers
China
Palace
because the music is lively and the hostesses are prettier than those at Ruby." She cackled a naughty laugh.

"Don’t listen to her," Hok-Ching said to me. "She loves to tease."

"Of course, none of them is as pretty as your own wife," Yolanda added, as though she could make everything right again with one compliment. Swiveling toward me, she said, "So how was your trip? Must have been hard traveling with the baby."

How nice of her to show concern about me. "It was all right. The baby slept through the flight, and the plane was on time."

"On time? I thought it arrived early." Swiveling back to Hok-Ching, she said, "It landed before you could finish your lunch." He stared at her with a hint of alarm, but Yolanda wasn’t one to notice subtleties. She went on, "The service at the
Peninsula
was frightfully slow. We had to wait the better part of an hour for the food to be served. When Hok-Ching called to find out about your flight, it had already arrived."

"Was
that
why you didn’t meet me at the airport?" I said to my husband.

"The most important thing is that you landed safe and sound," he said, without replying to my question.

The waiter uncovered the tureen. The sweet and musty smell of cabbage rose to our noses, and Hok-Ching and Yolanda went "mmm." Watching the two lick their lips, I thought of my dreadful night at the hospital, my body ravaged by pain, alone and scared, laboring to give birth to the offspring of this unfaithful cad. That same night he was probably here, eating borscht with his girlfriend—or worse, twirling with her on the dance floor at Ruby or
China
Palace
.

Yolanda had unwittingly cracked the pot and now the soup had leaked out. My husband had been lunching with his girlfriend when my plane landed. That was the reason he couldn’t meet me at the airport. My anger was boiling over, but I knew that I must keep the fire down until we got home. Kicking up a fuss in public wasn’t my style. I sat patiently through the rest of lunch and the taxi ride—of course we had to drop Yolanda at her home first.

When we got back to Uncle’s flat, I went to look in on Agnes. She was sound asleep in the amah’s arms, just the way she liked it. After feeling her head to make sure that she was neither too warm nor too cold, I joined my husband in our room.

"So you and Yolanda have been eating out every night," I said matter-of-factly. Straining against my chest was the urge to scream and cry and throw things at the despicable traitor.

"Not every night. Just once in a while—"

"Often enough for the waiter to know you by name. I’m surprised he didn’t call her Mrs. Wang."

Hok-Ching chuckled. "Is that why you’re mad at me?" He sidled up and encircled my angry shoulders in his arms. "You’re my Mrs. Wang. Yolanda is Miss Kwok, and she’s just a friend."

"Some friend. I can’t believe your heart can be so easily distracted. We’ve been separated for only a few months, and you’re already running after another woman. Yolanda, of all people!"

"I told you, she’s just a friend!" he shouted, as if loudness were more convincing.

I put a finger to my lips and pointed to the wall. It would be shameful for others to hear us quarreling.
 

"You were away," Hok-Ching said, his neck bulging with the effort to keep the volume down. "Yolanda’s fiancé was also away. We were two people in the same lonely situation, so we went out just to cheer ourselves up. There was nothing more."

"Are you sure there was nothing more?" I said. That was the closest I could come to asking him: Did you sleep with her?

"Of course that was all. Come on," he pinched my chin to make me look at him. "It’s over now. We’re back together, in addition to a baby girl and many more to come."

He tried to kiss me, but I pushed him away. What he said was exactly what any man would say under the circumstances. He could deny all he wanted, but my suspicions would always remain. The thought of another three-some outing with Yolanda turned my stomach. Even living in the same city as she did was repulsive. I wished Baba would hurry up and find Hok-Ching a job. Any job, anywhere would do, as long as it got him away from that woman.

TAPE SEVEN

STILL SEARCHING FOR HOME

1

Hok-Ching sliced open the envelope from Baba. Unable to stand the suspense, I peeked at the letter over his shoulder. The word
America
jumped at me. Hok-Ching grabbed me and swirled me around. "We’re going to
America
!" he sang.

I extracted the letter from his hand. Leaving him to dance by himself, I studied Baba’s communiqué. His language was as mysterious as an encrypted code. All he let out was that the scheme was rather complex and would take a few months to bring to fruition. The message was tightly woven, leaving no stray thread that could lead me to the nature of the trip: whether it would be for work or study, permanent or temporary. The letter ended abruptly, with Baba telling us to return to the family home in
Shanghai
and wait for further instructions.

Apparently, Hok-Ching thought this was the best news ever. But I wasn’t so sure. Long before Baba started hatching this plan, I’d formed my opinion of
America
. Many Chinese worshipped
America
, which they called the
Gold
Mountain
. The American moon was rounder than any other, they said, and even their human wastes were fragrant. They were blind followers of the American dream, choosing to see only one side and not the other. From what I’d heard, not everything in
America
smelled of roses. An American housewife, for instance, led the tough life of a so-called "all-in-one," a single servant hired to do all the chores for a family. Housework had never been my strength, and so far I’d been able to avoid it. If I went to
America
, I would have to take care of the baby plus cook, clean, mop, wash, iron—my head spun just thinking about it.

But what did it matter what I thought? My opinion weighed as much as a feather against Baba’s. He was the venerable elder whose every word weighed a thousand times mine. Nobody would dream of challenging him, and I didn’t want to be the first to do so. I therefore held my tongue and waited for Hok-Ching to finish dancing about.

Like obedient children reporting to school, Hok-Ching and I arrived at the family home in
Shanghai
. The compound, which occupied an entire block in the middle of the crowded city, was as impressive as Hok-Ching had described. The property consisted of three connected buildings and an expansive lawn that ended at an iron fence. A watchman and his German shepherds patrolled the grounds. Not counting servants, the residents numbered more than twenty. They were Ah Ma, her crippled daughter and eldest son, several of Ah Yi’s sons, the wives of those who were married, and a gaggle of nieces and sundry relations. Baba, the master of the house, was only a part-time occupant. He and Ah Yi lived in a government house in the capital,
Nanking
, and came back only on weekends and holidays.

The first house was Ah Ma’s domain. She had a rambling bedroom on the second floor, which was now occupied by her eldest son, his wife, and their year-old son. Ah Ma had moved to the third floor with her daughter, Hok-Yi. The second house belonged to Ah Yi, but since she’d moved to
Nanking
with Baba, Hok-Jit and Wai-Ching had taken over her room. The third house was Baba’s kingdom, which was off-limits to people with no business there.

Being the last to return, Hok-Ching and I got a tiny back room in Ah Yi’s building. It was located at the end of a long, spooky corridor lined with ancestor tablets. The reminders of the dead made my skin crawl, and I always hurried past them. This was the worst room of the entire homestead, but I didn’t really mind.
Shanghai
was just a temporary shelter, not a permanent home, for me.

What bothered me more was the malicious bickering among the residents. The household was divided into several factions. Even after Hok-Ching had explained to me the dynamics of the different groups, I still wasn’t sure who stood with whom against whom. Sometimes the fights were out in the open, but most of the time they were conducted with daggers concealed behind smiles. With Baba gone, there was no longer a lid on the hostility.

Before he moved to
Nanking
, Baba had appointed Hok-Yi, the crippled daughter, to be the nominal head of household. Although Ah Ma was around, she’d been stripped of all power many years ago. According to my husband, Ah Ma had been a reckless spender with a habit of abusing charge accounts at the department stores. Baba used to have fits at the end of the year when the shops sent in their bills. Slowly, without making it too obvious, the purse strings were eased out of Ah Ma’s hands and given over to Ah Yi. In Ah Yi’s absence, Baba would rather give the responsibility to his daughter than return it to his first wife.

Hok-Yi, however, couldn’t help being her mother’s daughter. Instead of playing referee, as a head of household should, she jumped headlong into the fray. Her loyalty, needless to say, belonged to her mother. Even the meals she ordered the cook to prepare were different for the different groups. For instance, Baba often received gifts of ham and other delicacies from people who wanted to curry favor with him. None of us on Ah Yi’s side ever saw the ham. The only people entitled to ham-and-egg breakfasts were members of Ah Ma’s camp.

The wife of Ah Ma’s eldest son was the greatest hog of them all. She was less than five feet tall, shaped like an eggplant, and had a temper as spicy as the food she ate. She lorded it over the household, and by power of association even her servant, Number Eight, reigned supreme over the other domestics. Every morning, this maid would center herself in the living room, holding herself like an empress giving audience to her subjects. All the other servants had to kowtow to her or their jobs would be in jeopardy.

I tried my utmost to mind my own business, and luckily or not, I had Agnes to keep me busy. At several months old she was already manipulating her parents as if they were puppets. Hok-Ching and I had nobody but ourselves to blame. Novices in child rearing, we couldn’t stand the least whimper from her. We picked her up the moment she started. Her nanny, Ah Hing, helped out during the day, but at night Agnes always returned to the crib by my side. Used to being couched in the warmth of a human body, she screamed the moment her little head touched the bed. Hok-Ching would waltz her around while singing the rhythm of "boom cha cha." When she finally dozed off, we would gently lay her down, praying that those big bright eyes wouldn’t spring open again. This often went on all night. The severe sleep deprivation played tricks on my brain, and I sometimes had difficulty distinguishing fact from fiction. Once, while I was feeding Agnes, her bib fell off. Unable to find it in the dark, I woke Hok-Ching to help me. When he turned on the light, I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, my arms cradling air, and Agnes sound asleep in the crib.

On one of Ah Yi’s visits, she noticed we were doing everything wrong. "For crying out loud, leave her in the crib! Shut the door, go downstairs, and close yourself in a room where you can’t hear her. Let her cry till she’s exhausted; then she’ll fall asleep."

We followed her advice and went downstairs, but not as far as Ah Yi had suggested. We stayed within hearing range, pressing palms over ears to muffle the howling, and yet not so tightly that we couldn’t hear her altogether. Hok-Ching and I pulled each other back, reminding ourselves that the treatment was for Agnes’s own good. After a while, Ah Yi’s prediction came true. The wailing stopped. We tiptoed up the staircase and peeked into the room. Agnes was lying in her crib, staring at the ceiling. Her head turned, tear-washed eyes flashed at me, and the screaming started all over again.

My preoccupation with Agnes kept me out of the family squabbles. But sometimes even when you’re not looking for trouble, trouble finds you anyway. Aside from my immediate family, the most important person to me was Ah Hing. Without her, I would get no rest from my cranky baby. She was a patient young woman who didn’t get ruffled easily, but that day she couldn’t control her sobbing. The tyrannical Number Eight had told her to pack up her things and leave, she told me. I calmed her down by pointing out that I was her employer and not Number Eight. The incident blew over, but it made me more anxious than ever to get away. I pushed Hok-Ching to pursue our trip to
America
with his father. Slaving over housework in my own home would be better than being waited on in this vicious jungle. The last three months had felt like three years.

The news I was praying for finally arrived. Baba summoned Hok-Ching and me to his study. The room was similar to the one in
Wong
Mountain
, humble in furnishing but grand in wisdom. Books paneled the wall. They were of every kind, from modern, hardbound volumes to old-fashioned hand-sewn texts and ancient scrolls. My eyes landed on the set of Encyclopedia Britannica. The volumes leaned crookedly against each other like a troop of wounded veterans. Their covers were tattered, spines rutted with crease, but instead of diminishing their worth, their injuries gave them a venerable sheen. Legend had it that Baba had studied the eighteen volumes and memorized their content. Now I could see that it wasn’t that tall a tale.

Sitting at a corner where such guests as Chiang Kai-Shek were received, Baba said to Hok-Ching, "You can go to
America
as early as next month. A trading company is willing to give you a job in its
U.S.
branch. The company is state-run, and you’ll be starting at a junior position. In other words, your salary won’t be high. You won’t starve, but after paying for room and board there won’t be much left. Eventually, when Flora joins you, she’ll have to work too."

"What do you mean by ‘eventually’?" Hok-Ching said. "Isn’t Flora traveling with me?"

"The visa to the
U.S.
is only for you. But don’t worry," Baba quickly added, "there are plenty of other opportunities for Flora. I can get her enrolled at a university, after which she’ll be eligible for a student visa. That’s no problem at all. The only person who can’t go is Man-Kuk. As both of you will be working or studying, there’s no one to take care of the baby.
America
is not
China
. Life is tough there. For the two of you to succeed, Man-Kuk must stay behind with me."

"How can you ask me to abandon my child?" Hok-Ching said. His voice had a shrill edge, a sign that he was about to throw one of his temper tantrums. "I’m not going unless all three of us go together."

"I’ll take good care of your child," Baba insisted. "I don’t want your life to be so hard that you want to come back. You’ve given up too easily and too often in the past.
America
is your only chance to make something of yourself. I want to lighten your burden so you can focus on your career."

"I’m not going without the baby!" Hok-Ching barked.

"Do as you please, then. You have several brothers who will appreciate the opportunity."

"I’ll have my own opportunities. I don’t need your help." Hok-Ching got up and marched out of the room, his elbows rigid with anger.

My instinct was to run after my husband, for I couldn’t agree with him more about abandoning Agnes. At the same time, his behavior toward his father was appalling. I faced Baba awkwardly and said, "I’m sorry he was rude to you. As you well know, he has a hot temper. I’ll talk it over with him when he’s cooled down."

"It’s no use, no use," Baba muttered, his ponderous head lolling from side to side. "You don’t know this son of mine. He’s been like this since he was a child. I’d hired a scholar to cultivate him in the
Four Books
and
Five Classics
of Confucius
,
but all that effort has been lost on him. The difference between a barbarian and him is very little."

That night at dinner, Baba showered praises on Hok-Jit. Hok-Jit was doing a fine job at Commercial Press, Hok-Jit’s son was the brightest of his grandchildren, and Wai-Ching was fine material for graduate studies. As for Hok-Ching, Baba didn’t even deem him worthy of a glance. Anyone with the least bit of intelligence could see Baba’s brush writing on the wall—Hok-Jit was going to
America
.

So there we were, living indefinitely in the middle of several warring factions. Hok-Ching was unemployed but didn’t appear in a hurry to look for work. He spent his days at the mahjong table, playing and joking around with his relatives. When he wasn’t frivolous, he would be storming over what so-and-so had said. His archenemy was Ah Ma, who took pleasure in picking on him at every opportunity. Her attacks consisted of a pinch here, a pinch there—not painful enough to really hurt, but enough to make Hok-Ching hop with annoyance. The pressure would build and build until one of them blew up, and from thereon there would be no hold on the mud they slung at each other. After everything had been said, they would retreat to an icy silence for several days. Then the sniping would start again.

I soon discovered that Hok-Ching actually enjoyed the bickering. He loved to hate Ah Ma. If several days went by without the stimulation of her needling, he would squirm as if he had an unreachable itch on his back. Why am I surprised? I asked myself. This is his home. He grew up in this environment, strange as it seems to me. He’s in his father’s house, as safe a place as can be, and to him safety is the most important thing in the world. He can go on like this the rest of his life.