Three Souls (17 page)
After parting from Stepmother, I hired a rickshaw. The ride from the market to the offices of
China Millennium
felt like a trip to the opposite end of the city. The rickshaw puller jogged along briskly, but my heart raced faster. Small stores and restaurants lined the sidewalks and when I spied the shop where Nanmei’s mother had the family’s shoes made, I knew I was nearly there.
The foyer smelled of cooking oil and garlic from the restaurant next door. I climbed up a rickety staircase to a landing with a sign that directed me up another flight of steps, and I pushed open a door bearing the magazine’s name on a frosted-glass pane. Bells on the door jangled as I entered an office where a single electric fan beat the air with a quiet spinning sound. Behind a counter that marked out the small waiting area were four desks and a long bookcase untidily stacked with newspapers and magazines. Sunlight entered through large, clean windows, bare of curtains or blinds. There was a smell of ink and sweat. And sandalwood soap. I spied a sink in one corner. So this was where Hanchin worked.
There was only one man in the office. He put his magnifying glass down on the document he had been reading and came to the counter.
“How may I help you, miss?” We were downwind of the electric fan, and his body odour was strong.
“I’m looking for Yen Hanchin. Is he here?” Even though clearly he wasn’t to be seen in the small office.
“Mr. Yen no longer works here, miss. May I be of assistance? I’m Lin Shaoyi, the editor of this journal.”
“No longer here?” My voice rose, too shrill. I made myself calm down. “Then please, tell me where he’s working now. I must speak with him.”
“He left for Soochow yesterday. He’s taken a new job as a teacher, a visiting instructor. He’ll be going from village to village to train teachers.”
I trudged down the stairs and collapsed on the bottom step, suddenly exhausted. Hanchin was gone. Was it because Tongyin told him I wouldn’t be going to university? Had he heard about my marriage? Was it because he was no longer welcome in our home? Did he think our love was now impossible?
For a moment my vision turned black and I stared into darkness despite the bright sunshine streaming through the foyer’s open door. Then my eyes cleared, but the colours of the world around me were shades of ash, bleak as winter fields. The smell of food from the restaurant next door, too strong a moment ago, now barely registered. I heard the calls of vendors out on the street with perfect clarity, but as though I were far away. The world was grey, my senses dulled. I wondered how my heart could beat so normally, compressed as it was to this leaden heaviness.
I thought of the young mother in the cotton mill, the noise, the smell. I saw again the dull-eyed prostitutes, their tawdry, brightly coloured dresses, their painted mouths gaping in tired yawns. I tried to forget the hobbling beggar woman, her low moans of pain. I walked out to the street slowly, barely able to follow each step with the next.
I took a rickshaw home.
W
e should tell you the story of your betrothal,
my
hun
soul says. Its shining form settles down on the steps of the temple. Although it’s early morning and the edges of the sky are barely streaked with light, looking at my
hun
soul is like trying to stare at a bird flying into the sun.
The circumstances of your betrothal to Lee Baizhen were so unusual they took on the status of legend in your husband’s family,
says my
yin
soul. She smooths down the pleats of her skirt and sits by my
hun
soul, knees drawn up, showing an inch of bare ankle above her white socks. There is a hint of crushed chrysanthemum petals in the air.
My
yang
soul looks bored. Rather than sit with the others, he chooses to lean against the temple door. I choose to ignore him.
Betrothals can take months of negotiation,
my
hun
soul begins, as though reciting from memory,
especially when families like yours are involved. Your marriage arrangements were concluded so quickly and so strangely that by the time your bridal procession arrived in the town of Pinghu, the story had travelled alongside canals, over bridges, and into every small alley, as widely as the wanderings of a mendicant monk.
The story goes like this. An elderly relative had asked Lee Wenjing, patriarch of the Lee family, to handle the sale of some property in the town of Jiaxing. Lee travelled to Jiaxing to meet the prospective buyer, a wealthy man by the name of Song. Over the course of the day, the two men discovered they shared an interest in collecting rare books. They enjoyed each other’s company so much that Song invited Lee for dinner aboard his private riverboat.
The boat was spacious and well equipped, more comfortable than most inns. There was a galley in the stern where Song’s manservant could prepare simple meals and boil water for tea. The two men sat on deck observing the comings and goings on the waterway. Under the influence of good wine, a bright moon, and the gentle rocking of waves, their conversation turned to family matters.
“My youngest daughter is seventeen and still unmatched,” Song said. “If you could recommend a family with an unmarried son, I would be most grateful.”
Lee pondered for a moment and said, “The Liangs are a good family, one of the great houses right here in Jiaxing. They’re family friends and have yet to match their youngest son, about the same age as your daughter. Let me find out more tomorrow.”
After another cup of wine, Lee cleared his throat.
“I’d like to ask the same favour of you,” he said. “I have an only son. So far we haven’t found anyone suitable in our little town of Pinghu. If you happen to know any families with unmarried daughters, I would appreciate an introduction.”
To Lee’s utter astonishment, Song dropped to his knees, banged his forehead three times on the teak deck, and cried out, “You have a son, I have a daughter, what more is there to say? Let us embrace and call each other kin!”
These lines are always uttered with great relish by the story’s narrator, for Song had just made a very daring proposal and forced its outcome. Not only had the two men only just met, but Song was by far Lee’s social superior. Thus Lee could hardly refuse when a man of Song’s status knelt before him.
It was a match beyond Lee’s wildest dreams. Telegrams were sent in both directions, and in the small town of Pinghu, Lee’s wife, who was from a wealthy merchant family, could hardly contain her joy at this alliance with one of the great houses of Changchow.
There is a contemplative silence.
So that’s how it happened. It was impulsive, an act of anger, wasn’t it?
I ask.
Can you blame him?
My
yang
soul polishes his glasses with a worn handkerchief.
He had enough to worry about without your little dramas.
This was done in anger, no doubt.
My
yin
soul plays with the ribbons of her pigtail.
Oh, but there’s no turning back from this one.
Do you think he realized what he had done?
I asked.
Is it too late now?
He was terribly angry with you,
my
hun
soul says.
But he loved you. He wanted to keep you safe. Marriage and a small town seemed like a good idea.
Pinghu, 1928
T
he time leading up to my wedding day came to me in fragments as random as the passage of leaves carried by a stream. There were imprecise, jumbled images of a long journey by train, a small and dusty station at its end point. There was an old sedan chair that smelled of camphor wood and gloom, a bumpy ride down winding streets and over arched bridges that ended when the chair passed through a set of large entrance gates. Through a panel of red fabric I looked out of the sedan chair at a courtyard hung with lanterns and other swags of red cloth, at strangers who smiled and bowed.
There were no sisters by my side at the ceremony, only Stepmother and unfamiliar women who addressed me as “cousin” and “niece.” At the banquet I sat as still as a wax doll, in the same red gown Sueyin had worn at her wedding, phoenixes embroidered on the bodice. Red silk veiled my face and a headdress decorated with jade and pearls weighed down my neck. The veil lifted a few times and I sipped from a cup of wine. I caught glimpses of a young man’s face, a nervous forced smile, a sideways glance. Lee Baizhen. My husband.
Of my wedding night I remember only that same anxious face looking down at me, pink and shining with sweat. Then a sharp pain between my legs and a pleading voice, explaining it wouldn’t hurt so much the next time. But it did, because the next time and the time after that followed far too soon, and it was daybreak before my husband fell asleep. I didn’t sleep at all. I didn’t cry. I had been numb since the day I realized there was no escape from the fate my father had decreed for me.
***
Why so few memories of that time?
I see only moments here and there, erratic and unevenly spaced.
You only kept a very few memories from those days, so we only have a few to show you.
A somewhat accusing tone from my
yang
soul.
You didn’t like those weeks. You never were good at facing up to consequences.
It was a nightmare for you,
my
yin
soul says,
and it
became worse once you understood it was no dream, but the rest of your life. In fact, there aren’t any memories at all of your last week at home, the week leading up to your bridal journey.
But your memories from the day after your wedding are all intact,
my
hun
soul adds
.
***
The early-autumn afternoon was cool. Servants swept up the remains of the party, tattered red paper from firecrackers, dirt tracked into the halls. There was more than an hour to spare before my family’s departure for the train station, and my new in-laws showed them around the estate. Lee Wenjing, the father-in-law I would now address as Gong Gong, led the tour.
Gong Gong was tall, nearly as tall as Changyin. His square jaw would have made him look stern if not for his drooping eyebrows, which gave him an indecisive air. He had an unusually large nose with a high bridge, almost like a foreigner’s. He was distinguished rather than handsome, his height more impressive than his features.
Father strolled beside Gong Gong, and Changyin and Tongyin followed. Lee Baizhen—I couldn’t yet think of him as my husband—walked between my brothers. He was a good six inches shorter than Changyin. I trailed behind, walking with Stepmother and my mother-in-law. I could hear Tongyin telling Baizhen all about university life in Shanghai.
“Our English professor is an Englishman,” my Second Brother said. “He’s very particular about pronunciation. Very particular. There’s no pleasing him.”
“What an advantage though, to learn from an actual foreigner.” Baizhen’s voice was wistful. “I’ve never seen one. Do they really have terribly large noses?”
Gong Gong’s library contained some very fine paintings and works of calligraphy, many of them antiques. Father was clearly envious of the rare books my father-in-law had displayed in glass cases, which meant the collection was impressive. Then Gong Gong led us through the rest of the estate.
The main house, a sizable three-level mansion, stood against the back wall of a large courtyard. The centre of the courtyard contained a formal rock garden planted with tall bamboos and plum trees; at its centre was a clearing that held a large pavilion. I stumbled, catching my toe in a hole left by a missing paving stone. On one side of the main courtyard was a round moon gate set in a whitewashed wall. We passed through the moon gate and came to a path that led to another, smaller courtyard garden, which contained a small bamboo grove and a rock garden, and beyond them, a two-level house.
“This will be Baizhen and Leiyin’s home,” said Jia Po.
This was the first time my mother-in-law had spoken. Her voice was strong and confident, unexpected from such a tiny person. Her head barely reached my shoulder and to call her plain would have been a kindness. Her forehead was too wide and her chin jutted out. Her hands though, were beautifully shaped. A large pearl-and-coral ring showed off her long, slim fingers, and magnificent gold-and-jade bracelets adorned her wrist. Her clothing was otherwise very simple.
“Once all of Leiyin’s belongings are unpacked, she and Baizhen can move in here. A young couple should have their own household.” Jia Po hurried ahead to throw open the door to the house.
The walls inside had been freshly painted and the exterior looked clean and bright. But I saw Stepmother glance around and I followed her sharp-eyed gaze. Weeds clambered between flagstones and stagnant water filled a small pond by the rock garden. The walls of the house showed hints of dark patches that meant mildew and the carved shutters were cracked, their wood dry and in need of varnish.
Inside the house, my dowry furniture was already arranged in several of the rooms. A rosewood bedroom suite gleamed in one chamber, a table and chairs of lacquered wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl stood beside a window. In another room, another new bed, more tables and chairs, their shining surfaces a sharp contrast to the shabby wardrobe, original to the home, that was tucked in a corner.
“This is the newest house on the property, built in a more modern style.” Jia Po had a brisk air about her, addressing me as though I were a buyer and not a new daughter-in-law. “This second-floor veranda is such a nice feature.”