Three Souls (20 page)
In my little library, I opened my photograph album and turned to pictures of Fei-Fei and my little nieces and nephews. They laughed at the camera, chubby and squinting. Fei-Fei’s hair was bunched up in two small pigtails. I remembered their hands reaching up for mine so trustingly, their chiming laughter and voices as sweet as the clink of jade bangles. If I had my own baby, I thought, life could be bearable.
The next morning, I opened my eyes and the world was once again awash in colour.
T
he entire household’s attention now bent to my well-being. I was as pampered as a spoiled child, as cosseted as an invalid. Jia Po had Old Kwan purchase a stewing hen each week to simmer into broth, and while everyone else ate plain congee for breakfast, mine was boiled in broth, garnished with shreds of cooked chicken, an egg beaten in for extra nourishment. When I confessed to a fondness for dried kumquats, Jia Po immediately sent a note to the shop at the top of Minor Street and within the hour a large glass jar of orange sweets appeared in my little library.
Baizhen’s plain face had broken into a delighted grin when Jia Po announced my pregnancy and the smile rarely left his face now. He even walked differently, shoulders square and back straighter than before. He went out less and spent more time with me, but he no longer came to my bed, for which I was grateful. He visited me each morning to inquire whether I had slept well.
“I’ll have Little Ming bring your breakfast on a tray,” he would say if I looked tired. “I’ll tell my parents you need to rest a little more today.”
The doctor had suggested regular walks to promote good circulation. Baizhen accompanied me, one hand carefully holding my elbow. Our daily promenade meandered through our courtyard and the orchard, out through the moon gate to the main courtyard, then around the forecourt, where Old Ming kept sentry by the gate, and back again to our courtyard.
During these walks I learned more about Baizhen’s childhood. He pointed out a low cave in the rock garden, his favourite hiding spot, and the old chicken coop in the orchard where he once kept rabbits. He pointed out the small cottage at the far end of the orchard. An elderly, impoverished great-uncle had once lived there. Since his death, the cottage had fallen into disrepair.
A side door in the orchard wall opened out to a private lane leading up to Jade Belt Road, where the main gates to the house stood.
“I used to sneak out through that side door because Old Ming couldn’t see and wouldn’t be able to tell on me,” he said. His grin gave me a glimpse of the boy he had been, a little naughtier than I had imagined.
“Where did you go when you sneaked out?”
He shrugged. “I used to wander along Jade Belt Road, go around the corner, and watch the boats on the canal. Sometimes I tied string to a bamboo pole and pretended to fish. Or I’d buy something to eat from a street vendor and chat with him.”
But he didn’t mention friends. Did he even have any? Where would my child find friends in this town?
***
They were kind to you,
my
yin
soul remarks. She is still coaxing the calico cat to play, and has pulled the ribbon off her pigtail to tempt it
. I think they would have been kind even if you weren’t pregnant. Baizhen and Jia Po, anyway.
Now I know why cats pounce at nothing,
I remark. The cat leaps at the ribbon and my
yin
soul laughs, a gleeful child.
But I never felt they were being kind to me for my own sake. Baizhen yes, but my in-laws only because of the baby.
My
yang
soul strokes his goatee. He looks troubled.
You don’t give others enough credit.
Maybe they felt uncertain about you, what would please you. Pregnancy finally gave them an excuse to show affection.
My
hun
soul taps my cheek with a bright, cool finger.
We watch Baizhen take me into the orchard, the tree branches tipped with green-and-white buds. Already there is a scent of blossom in the air.
***
I wrote to Father about my pregnancy. It was my duty.
I wrote to my sisters with real joy. If all went well, Gaoyin’s baby would only be a few months older than mine.
Father sent a generous gift of cash for my personal use, which Gong Gong “put away” for me. Stepmother sent packets of herbs and warm flannel cloth for baby garments. Sueyin sent expensive maternity clothes and Gaoyin a crocheted button-up sweater and matching red hat, her own, rather lopsided effort. It amused me to think of my glamorous sister struggling with a crochet needle. She wrote to me:
Impending motherhood has had a peculiar effect on me. I’m more interested in knitting patterns for baby clothes than fashion magazines.
Her secret letter wasn’t quite so sunny and maternal:
Tongyin called on us last week and brought his friend Cha Zhiming, who has dropped out of Whampoa Military Academy. But that doesn’t matter because Cha will be given an important position in the police force, thanks to his father’s connections. No battles on the front lines for him. I hear gossip that Cha and his friends frequent the disreputable nightclubs in Shanghai. I don’t want to worry Father, but I think Tongyin is one of those friends.
Sueyin’s letter came only a day later:
I’m so happy for you. You’ve always loved little children. Now that you will have one of your own, how fulfilling your life will be.
Sueyin’s letter hinted delicately at her hope that I would find real and not feigned contentment. From her secret letters I knew that the longer she lived with the Liu family, the less hopeful she felt about her own marriage:
Judge Liu is too busy to bother with reading my letters. However, this doesn’t stop Tienzhen’s aunts or his cousins’ wives from pawing through my belongings. They think I don’t notice. My mother-in-law isn’t as old as she seems, she’s only just turned forty. I feel sorry for her and try to be kind. The Liu family is a cold-blooded lot. I wonder if she began taking opium to ease her loneliness.
Now that I was with child, Jia Po seemed to fold aside a screen that had stood between us, revealing a talkative and friendly woman. We discussed how to arrange the nursery and interviewed potential wet nurses. We cut patterns for baby clothing and devoted entire days to sewing, making the most of the daylight. I laughed along with her as she told stories of her ignorance as a young wife, and listened attentively to what she shared about her own pregnancy. Children, her family’s health, domestic chores. This was the world she preferred to inhabit, I learned. She confessed that when Gong Gong read the news, she only pretended to listen.
My sewing skills improved from dismal to adequate. I used to be impatient with the needle, but now I had nothing but time. I wanted every stitch small and even, well-placed so the thread wouldn’t chafe my baby’s soft skin.
“I learned to take care of the household like this, you know, by following my mother-in-law on her rounds,” Jia Po said to me one day. It was spring now, and we were on our daily inspection of the house and kitchen. “My mother-in-law had bound feet, so she rode a chair mounted on rails and carried by two male servants.”
She sounded wistful, and glanced up at the wooden shutters of her house, beautifully carved but weather-beaten. “Those servants also did a little gardening, and the carpentry work. They kept the houses in repair.”
“This once was a beautiful estate.” I forgot myself and spoke in the past tense. But Jia Po didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, it’s shabby now, but in the old days we kept to very high standards. This house and its amenities, the gardens and the kitchens, all compared favourably to my family home in Hunan.”
This was the first time she had mentioned anything about her own family. I wondered whether she missed them the way I missed mine.
***
Most of the houses along the perimeter of the Lee estate had been sold off piecemeal as one generation after another fell on hard times. With each sale, walls went up to separate the new owners from the sections that still belonged to the Lee clan. Gong Gong’s portion of the estate, which we entered through the imposing double gates that faced Jade Belt Road, was the largest and most complete of the surviving properties. At one point, Gong Gong’s father had been close to selling off even more land and houses. But like a gift from the gods, Jia Po came to marry Gong Gong and her stupendous dowry had staunched the outflow of property and cash.
“The wedding procession was the longest I ever saw in this town.” Old Kwan whacked a thick knob of ginger with the flat of his cleaver. My in-laws had told me about the eminent ancestors of the Lee clan, but not very much about recent generations. Old Kwan filled in the gaps with gusto, sensing in me an attentive audience.
I was a constant presence in the kitchen these days, helping him string beans or devein shrimp, skills I had never learned while living in Changchow. On my lap, a basket of pea pods rested against my round belly and on the brick floor, live river shrimps waved their whiskery feelers in a bucket of water. I had been craving shrimp sautéed with peas.
“Rumour had it the Mistress brought a dowry rich enough to last three generations. Her family is one of the wealthiest in Hunan province, you see, but they started out as rice farmers. So they bought themselves a bit more status marrying into an old and famous lineage.”
He removed the ends from a bunch of green onions, then chopped the onions and a small wedge of pork belly into tiny shreds.
“The Mistress came off the boat in a sedan chair hung with bells, the same one you rode on your wedding day. The procession went on forever, twenty mules loaded with luggage, and five ox carts of furniture, porcelain, and rolls of silk. One cart held a metal-bound chest with the lid open to show off a pile of silver bars.”
Old Kwan was warming up to his story now.
“That silver was only for show, though, because all those silver and gold coins, plus cash and deeds to property had already been deposited with a bank in Shanghai.”
“But how did the Lees manage to spend so much money in such a short time?” I asked.
Kwan laid a shrimp on the cutting board, and with a smooth swipe of his knife opened the shell along its back, stuck the tip of the knife in and dug out the vein.
“Well, there were debts going back a generation or two that had to be paid off, you see. When your husband, the Young Master, was born, the Old Master ordered three days of feasting, with gifts of silk and tea for all the guests. Then the Old Master died, so the Master rebuilt the family mausoleums to honour his departed father. And the Master loves his rare books and paintings.”
He poured oil into the iron wok to heat, threw in the ginger and some salt. Ginger neutralized seafood poisons, according to Old Kwan. He mixed water and cornstarch into the bowl of shrimp, just barely coating their surfaces. His flat nose flared: he could tell by smell the moment when the oil was just hot enough to absorb the flavour of the ginger. He tossed the chopped onions and pork belly into the wok. It spattered and hissed, the shrimps went in, Kwan’s spatula turned and flipped, the smell was divine.
“But why didn’t Jia Po stop him?” I couldn’t imagine watching so much wealth melt away without protesting.
“He’s the patriarch, Young Mistress.” As though this explained it all.
Old Kwan threw in a handful of peas, gave them a stir, then added a few drops of sesame oil. My stomach gurgled. He lifted the metal pan as though it was as light as a porcelain cup, spooned the shrimp into a bowl, and set it in front of me.
“Here. Do you want rice?”
I shook my head, picked up some chopsticks, and shovelled shrimp and peas into my mouth as though I hadn’t eaten lunch just a few hours ago. He took off his apron, washed his hands, and leaned against the doorway to look out at his kitchen garden.
“And now, Young Mistress, it’s your dowry that keeps us fed.”
***
Gong Gong paid more attention to me now too. He invited me to his study and said I could borrow any book I wished, except for a few of the rarest antiques.
“During pregnancy,” he intoned, “a woman should avoid stories of war and tragedy. Choose stories about filial piety and books that promote peaceful thoughts. Read poetry or novels about family life. If you do, your child will be assured of an obedient temperament.”
He pointed at a long table bearing stacks of books and scrolls.
“You can borrow some of the books from that table too. I take them out to show friends,” he said. “But I’m not very good at putting them away.”
“I can put these away for you, Father. I used to help my father organize his collection and I’m familiar with the classics.”
For the next hour, I gave in to the enjoyment of handling the wonderful volumes.
“Was this inherited from one of your scholarly ancestors, Gong Gong?” I nearly gasped out loud when I saw the last book on the table, a single tome containing three volumes of poetry by Zhou Bi of the Song Dynasty. It was only a copy of the original, but still valuable because it had been printed during the Ming Dynasty. What made it even more precious were the annotations in the margins, couplets inspired by the original poems as well as brief essays and critiques. These had been added by the book’s previous owners, a few of whom were famous poets in their own right. My father had agonized over buying such a book once. Reading it, he said, would have been like a conversation with literary connoisseurs from another era. But he couldn’t justify the expense of buying it.
“No, no. I bought that one myself on a special trip to Hangchow.” Gong Gong looked pleased. “It took quite a lot to persuade the previous owner to part with it.”
“It must give you such pleasure to read the notations from previous owners,” I exclaimed, carefully turning the pages.
To my surprise, he just shrugged.