Journey Across the Four Seas (26 page)

I lay awake thinking about the story I’d heard several days ago. One of my Shanghainese acquaintances, an educated woman who spoke fluent English, had tailed her husband to a restaurant. There she found her husband hugging a dance hostess so tightly that they looked like a pair of Siamese twins. The angry wife grabbed him by his tie and pulled him away. His face turned blue. People could see that he was being strangled. They tried to reason with her, but she was beyond reason. It was the hostess who finally took action. She locked her arm around the wife’s neck and wrestled her to the ground.

I cringed at the thought of the scene. Two women writhing on the floor, clawing and biting. People standing by, watching, jeering. No, I’d rather let Hok-Ching do whatever he was doing than debase myself to that level. But where did this scandal take place? Was the restaurant called Hoi Tin?

*

The chauffeur, a young Thai with eyes as bright as they were roving, knew exactly where to go when I mentioned Hoi Tin Restaurant. To my relief, he bypassed the red light district and went on to a commercial part of town. The route he followed was along a
klong
, one of the many in the maze of canals that kept
Bangkok
from flooding. Many a drunk driver had met their end in these
klongs.
The possibility that my husband had joined their company often kept me up at night.

The driver let me off in front of a two-story building. In breadth and height, it was a giant among the huddle of kiosks lining the street. A huge sign painted with swirling white clouds on a blue sky hung over the entrance. I clutched my purse with determination and pushed through the heavy door.

The ground floor was bustling with customers. Dim sum girls walked around, pinching their voices to call out the dishes on their trays. I wove around the tables, pretending to be looking for somebody. At lunchtime, there was little chance of running into Hok-Ching. If I did, I would simply tell him that a cousin had invited me there.

I climbed a few steps of the staircase. When nobody objected, I went all the way up. The second floor was a sprawling ballroom, now empty of dancers. Seated at one of the tables were three women, slatternly dressed, the collars of their cheongsams flipped down. From the vulgar way they sat—one with legs extended, another with her dress hitched up so she could rest her foot on her lap—I could tell they weren’t products of upper-class families.

"We’re closed," one of them shouted in Cantonese. "The floor opens at six."

"I’m looking for somebody. People say he’s a frequent customer here," I said, approaching them. They stared at my belly, obviously wondering what a woman in my condition was doing at a nightclub. I went on to mutter something about having misplaced my relative’s address.

"Describe him to me," one of them said. "I’m not good at names, but I can remember the face of every man I’ve danced with." The speaker was quite refined-looking, with a face shaped like a watermelon seed. Her voice was husky, as if she’d just got out of bed.

"He has a long chin," I said, giving away my husband’s landmark feature. "His eyes are round and deep and he’s a smidgen taller than I. His last name is Wang—"

"Crown Prince Wang! So that’s the person you’re looking for," the woman exclaimed. "He comes almost every night with his friend, the Shanghainese with the round face. We call him candy man, because his name is Sun-Tong. Tong, you know, like the candy you eat."

"Sometimes we call him handy man," another woman said. "He has many hands and they’re very naughty." The three cackled with hilarity.

The name Sun-Tong was all that I needed to hear. He owned a company across the hall from Hok-Ching’s office. He also happened to be renowned as
Bangkok
’s number one playboy. Considering the carnal pleasures the city had to offer, the title shouldn’t be taken lightly.

"Crown Prince Wang, does he…." I couldn’t finish my question.

"He’s our most generous customer," the husky-voiced woman said. "He always leaves a large tip. That’s why all the girls fight to dance with him."

"You’re joking, sister," her colleague said. "Prince Wang won’t dance with anybody else but you. None of us would dare touch him when you’re around."

I’d heard enough. Muttering thanks, I retreated down the staircase and out into the street. The chauffeur was waiting in the nearby shop. He ran to the car when he saw me, surprised that I was finished so soon. Calmly, I told him to drive me to Mother’s.

I had wanted to have a private talk with Mother, but she was sitting at the table with Brother Kin, who had come home for lunch, and his pregnant wife. They invited me to have a bite with them. I sat down and burst into tears.

"Hok-Ching is gone all the time, day and night," I blubbered. "He used to call home to say that he had to take clients out to dinner, but nowadays he doesn’t even call. From the office he goes straight to Hoi-Tin Restaurant with that playboy Sun-Tong!"

"What’s wrong with going to a restaurant?" Mother said, eyebrows furrowed with puzzlement.

"It’s not just a restaurant. The upstairs is a nightclub, and there are dance hostesses who are willing to do anything—" I broke off sobbing into my hands.

To my utter astonishment, Mother laughed. "Silly girl," she said, "is that what you’re crying over? That’s what men do. Don’t you know that? Every man has to have a vice. As long as he treats you well and takes care of you and the children, what more do you want?"

Incredulous, I turned to my brother for help. The amusement on his face wasn’t encouraging, but I was desperate for an ally. "Brother Kin is a man too. How come he doesn’t have a vice?"

"Oh yes, he does," my mild-mannered sister-in-law said, a barb in her soft voice. "He loves to gamble. Sometimes he loses a million baht a night."

"I’ve won a million baht a night too." Brother Kin retorted. "The next day, I bought you a diamond ring, and one for Mother. Go on, show it to my sister."

The two women flashed the stones on their fingers. The conversation was leading nowhere. How could they equate gambling with the other vice?

"You’re a businessman too," I said to my brother. "Why is it that you don’t have to entertain clients every night?"

"My position is different. I’m chairman of the board. I get involved when an important matter comes up, but not in the day-to-day affairs of the company. Hok-Ching is the manager. He runs the office, and it’s also his duty to drum up business. Much of his success depends on his connections, and he can’t connect with anyone by staying home. A man should be outgoing and generous and bold in facing society. Staying home too much will only make him a sissy."

I had never liked to argue. If somebody said something that didn’t agree with me, I usually kept quiet. On this matter, however, I had to speak up.

"If Hok-Ching were truly entertaining clients, I could put up with him going out every night. But how can he be doing serious business when he has Sun-Tong with him?"

Brother Kin laughed. "I know Sun-Tong likes to play, but he’s also a businessman. Sometimes he does us a favor and other times we return it. That’s the way it is in business. Besides, he’s good to have around because he knows how to make people laugh. You see?" Brother Kin slapped his thigh and pointed his finger as if it were the barrel of a pistol. This was Sun-Tong’s signature gesture. Coming from my brother, it was even funnier than when Sun-Tong did it. I had to bite my lips to keep from laughing.

"You think you have it rough?" Mother said. "When your father was alive, he was gone years at a time. Did I ever ask him what he did? Never. He wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway, and if he did, I’m better off not knowing. Come on, stop crying, you tear bag. Crying is bad for your health and the little one inside. Let the men go out on the town. We women will stay home and raise our children."

I dried my tears and went home. With my own mother and brother taking Hok-Ching’s side, nothing more could be said on the subject.

*

Resigned to my fate, I immersed myself in diapers and bottles and the production of more babies. On the night of
April 26, 1950
, Hok-Ching was entertaining his Shanghainese cronies at home. Soon after they’d left, I felt a twitch in my belly. Hok-Ching rushed me to the car. He’d never had to send me to the hospital before, and he was as nervous as a first-time father. Fumbling around as if he were just learning to drive, he got me to
Saint Louis
. It was a Catholic hospital open to everyone, not the exclusive European hospital I’d sworn never to go back to. I was admitted around
10 pm
, and on the dot of
midnight
my son slid out. It was as easy as emptying my bowels. This was my third baby in four years. My channels and canals had been stretched wide enough for an elephant to lumber through.

I named him Joseph, after the man who looked after Mary and Jesus. As important as being successful, a man must be a good father and husband. Baba gave him the Chinese name of Tai-Loi, meaning "from
Thailand
."

I was living my life all over again. Just as I thought I had graduated from nightly feedings, another newborn was slumbering by my side. Joe was a hungry baby who wanted his milk every two hours without giving consideration to whether it was day or night. Unlike Patrick, who was all calcium, Joe was all fat—rolls and rolls of it spilling from under his chin and overlapping in layers on his arms and thighs. Everyone envied me. Chinese love fat babies, and my relatives were always asking me what I fed him. He eats whatever I eat, I told them. The women understood that I meant mother’s milk.

Joe was literally sucking me dry. In spite of all the nutritious food that Mother prepared for me, my weight was back down to prepregnancy level. Most people couldn’t believe that I’d just had a baby. I was always tired, nodding off in a chair like an old woman. When my other children wanted me, there was nothing left of me to give. I was short-tempered with them and said nasty things I didn’t mean. The truth was, I’d reached the limit of my endurance. Three children and one unfaithful husband was a huge load for any woman. I prayed to God not to put any more babies in me.

When Joe was five months old, I missed my period again. I told myself not to panic yet. All the experts had assured me that a nursing mother couldn’t conceive. Just to be on the safe side, I went to Dr. Chat’s for a rabbit test. When he called me back in for the result, I burst into tears.

Believe me, the news was like a life sentence. Already I had no life of my own. Every second of my waking and sleeping hours was dedicated to the little monsters. My university education had been a waste of time and money, my ambition to write all but forgotten. How I longed for my days as a single workingwoman! Then I worked only eight hours a day, six days a week, and got paid for my labors. The rest of the time I was free to do whatever I liked—visiting friends, window-shopping, eating out, and yes, sleeping through the night. Ah, how sweet it would be to lay my head on the pillow and keep it there until the sun came out.

No job could be as hard as tending to the needs of children, and no one could pay me enough to take it on. However, since they were my own children, I could only collapse into a chair and cry. Hok-Ching tried to console me, but he would have done better to keep his mouth shut. "Another child is just a matter of adding another pair of chopsticks to the table," he said.

Of course, that was what it was to him. All he ever had to do was play with the children, while I had to take care of them and discipline them when they were naughty. I was the one who did all the hard work, but he was the one who got all their affection.

"Do you know what I have to go through every day?" I said. "If we could only switch places for one day, you would know what I mean."

"You take my place in the office?" Hok-Ching said with a most irritating smirk.

I thought to myself: why not? The company belongs to my brother. But I didn’t say it to Hok-Ching, fearing he would go to other women for comfort.

*

How could I describe my typical day? Well, let me try.

First of all, where did my day begin? Was it the two-o’clock feeding, the four, or the six? Let’s just say it started at six. Like clockwork, the "huh, huh, huh" of a cranky motor woke me. I scooted down a little, rolled on my side toward my sleeping husband, and plugged a breast into the feeding machine between us. Unconsciousness claimed me again until Joe’s impatient whining resumed. My eyes half shut, I slipped both hands under the warm, moist bundle and shifted the big slobbering mouth to my other side.

Joe would be good for the next two hours, but it was too late for me to go back to sleep. I got out of the mosquito net and went into the room across the hallway. Agnes was still asleep, but Pat’s bed was empty. Oh no, I thought to myself, not again. I rushed out to the living room and found Pat pushing against the couch with the energy from every drop of milk he’d ever drunk.

"Stop it," I yelled, snatching his hand off the couch. "Look what you’ve done." I swung him around to face his handiwork. The living room was like a furniture warehouse. The chairs and tables were piled against the wall and streaks on the beautiful teak floor marked the path they’d traveled. "You do
not
move the furniture around. You hear me?" I shook him hard, but he only stared at me with his black marble eyes that seemed incapable of absorbing anything. How could I make this muscular three-year-old understand that he wasn’t supposed to rearrange the furniture? Perhaps words weren’t enough. I picked up a duster and brandished it.