Three Souls (33 page)
He used you.
There is saltpetre in the air, my
yin
soul’s anger. She shakes out her pigtails and begins braiding them again.
He had it all planned.
He despised me. And Tongyin. I see that now. To him we were just rich children prattling on about things we didn’t understand or believe.
***
I didn’t think a person could live with such pain every hour of the day. Before my eyes opened in the morning, before I could even remember my name, I felt the nagging, dull pain in my chest. Some days I woke cold with anger at Hanchin’s casual manipulation of my feelings. I was even upset on Tongyin’s behalf. Were we nothing to him but a pack of playing cards? Angry or aching, my blood boiled with humiliation over my stupidity. Had it been love or obsession?
It took great effort to be amiable and I didn’t always succeed, but everyone just assumed I was having a difficult pregnancy. No one commented on my melancholy state or my desire to be left alone. My family’s genuine affection only made me feel worse about what I had done.
Had I actually planned to abandon my daughter, or take her away from a loving father? What sort of insanity had come over me? Had I really been willing to put my innocent child through such grief? Ready to devastate a kind, decent man like Baizhen, who in all these years had never raised his voice or hand to me?
I vowed to be a better wife, one who deserved a husband like Baizhen.What harm was there in letting everyone believe this baby was his? My adultery and its consequences would never come to light as long as Baizhen believed I had been faithful. And who was to say the baby wasn’t his?
But I had had my revenge, I reminded myself. I had betrayed Hanchin. He would be caught and jailed.
***
Baizhen and I went to the theatre to see the latest Chen Dai romance. Sueyin was famous now for playing tragic heroines in costume dramas. Her fans didn’t want her in cheerful musical roles or comic romps; they wanted to see her face, a single tear coursing down her perfect cheekbone, her mournful gaze as it lingered on a departing lover. The magazines reported Lianhua Studios was planning a Chinese version of
Anna Karenina,
starring Chen Dai as Anna.
Jia Po and I inspected the estate, shaking our heads at the state of the shutters and woodwork, once so beautiful. The stairs creaked, and many of the railings suffered from dry rot. Weeds had taken over the courtyards and the fruit trees needed pruning. Tiles had come loose from the roof of the main house.
“We will send for Old Fong just before spring planting to clean up the gardens,” Jia Po said. “It will give him some extra cash to buy seeds for his crop.”
“Will you speak to Gong Gong about hiring a carpenter?” I asked. The houses needed repairs that couldn’t be delayed any longer. “It’s not safe. I’m always telling Weilan not to lean against the railings and banisters; I’m so afraid she’ll fall.”
“Yes, we’ve put off calling in a carpenter for too long. Let’s do it in the spring.”
***
It was January, but the afternoon was warm enough that I couldn’t resist settling on the second-floor veranda to read. Baizhen put soft cushions on the wicker seats and filled the enamel bowl on the table with dried fruit.
My heart was still torn between sorrow and anger, but I resolved to forget Hanchin. I was only three months away from my due date, larger and more awkward than I’d been during my first pregnancy. A boy would bring great happiness to Baizhen, and this mattered very much to me now. I longed to hold a newborn in my arms again, to show Weilan the wondrous perfection of tiny hands and feet. I only hoped the baby wouldn’t resemble Hanchin.
Baizhen came up to my library to deliver the
Central Daily News.
It was three days old: the mail from Shanghai arrived erratically these days.
“Let’s read this out on the veranda,” I said to Baizhen. “Natural light is so much better for the eyes. Let me make some tea, and then come sit with me. Dali just brought in a kettle of boiled water.”
Baizhen waved me aside, indicating he would prepare the tea.
“Sit and read, Wife. Will you be cold?”
“I’ll put on a warm vest. Where’s Weilan?”
“Mother has gone to visit Old Lady Bao and took Weilan with her. She says our daughter needs to practise good manners.” He chuckled and went in to make the tea.
I unfolded the newspaper and scanned the front page. The news was depressingly similar day after day, transcripts of speeches by Generalissimo Chiang, the latest glib pronouncements from the Americans and British about their solid support for the Nationalists.
On the second page, I saw his name:
It has been confirmed that Yen Hanchin, Communist agent and agitator, Russian scholar, journalist, and poet, was executed by firing squad on January 5, 1935, in Ningbo. He had been in custody for several months, but under a false identity. A witness who knew him came forward and Yen confessed his real name. He was given the opportunity to renounce the Communist cause, but refused.
I sprang to my feet with a cry. I never thought Hanchin would be executed, only jailed. Baizhen came running when he heard me call out, but before he could reach my side, I collapsed against the veranda railing.
Fifty years of dry rot and neglect gave way beneath my weight.
My body fell through the air.
Below, the grey stones of the courtyard.
S
top now. Please. No more,
I say to my souls
. I need to walk.
I was desperate to get away from the frantic efforts to save my life, the murmured exchanges between the village doctor and the midwife, their ministrations over my still, unresponsive form. To get away from the sight of blood, the glimpse of an infant whose souls winked away the moment he came into this world. Away from Baizhen’s grief, Weilan’s small, shocked face, Jia Po keening in the corner over a tiny bundle.
My son is dead. He was my guilty secret, but he would have brought us such joy.
My souls trail behind as I leave the temple. Moonlight passes through us and casts no shadows. We enter the bamboo grove, where stiff green leaves flutter in a light wind that bends their tall, hollow stalks. I climb the few steps up to the pavilion while my
hun
soul makes a slow circuit around it before coming to rest on a bench. My
yin
soul joins it and turns her face up to the moon. My
yang
soul sits across from them, leaning forward with his hands folded on his cane.
So there were two deaths. The baby’s and mine. But where is he now, my child? Why isn’t my son here with me?
My
hun
soul gestures upward.
Your child was blameless. His souls went immediately into the afterlife. Perhaps he’s been reincarnated already.
Those tiny feet. The sweet scent of clean baby skin. Gone. I would never know them. I feel the sensation of tears but when my fingers brush my face, there is nothing.
All my memories are back and I still don’t understand. How is Hanchin the reason I’m trapped on this earth?
Isn’t it obvious? Hanchin died because you betrayed him,
my
yang
soul says, and there is a sharp taste of tamarind on the tip of my tongue.
You told Tongyin how to track him down. You must make amends for his death before we can ascend to the afterlife.
But Tongyin also betrayed him. Doesn’t he share the guilt?
Tongyin will atone for his sins when it’s his time. Right now it’s yours.
My
hun
soul pats me on the arm but I move away, my mind still rippling.
But how am I supposed to make amends?
There is silence.
We don’t know,
my
yin
soul admits. Her young face is anxious and there is an odour of mildew and old books.
It’s up to you to find out. We’re all counting on you, Leiyin.
I
’m not a ghost, at least not the sort people notice. I call out greetings when Dali sweeps the temple floors each morning, but she just continues with her broom, paying more attention to cobwebs than she does to me. I can find no way to reveal my presence: not through the creaking of ancient door hinges, not in cold breezes that raise goosebumps on her arm and lift the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.
How can I atone for Hanchin’s death when I can’t even make myself heard, or seen, or felt? When I don’t even know what the gods consider proper penance?
When I was alive, I had been slightly nearsighted. Now when I gaze at the ginkgo tree, its leaves are sharp outlines against the sky. Each feather on a flycatcher’s wing glistens blue as it skims past. Even from inside the temple I can hear the daily rituals of town life: washerwomen scrubbing clothes on the banks of the canal, water lapping as flat-bottomed boats are poled on their way along the banks, cries of greeting and gossip. And the scents. The fragrance of early-blooming clematis in the next courtyard fills my nostrils as though I’m standing beneath its rustling vines. The smell of garlic wafting over from the kitchen is so strong I can taste it.
I worry about Weilan. She sits by herself in what was my library, copying characters into her exercise book:
Mother. Mother. Mother.
Over and over. And in the margins:
Please come back.
She is like a small ghost herself, silent and pale. She hardly eats. At night, Jia Po lets Weilan sleep in her room. She comforts my daughter whenever she wakes up crying in the big bed.
“Mama, I want Mama!”
“Po Po is here, my precious, Po Po is here.”
“No, no! I want my Mama!”
I can’t bear to be in the room when Weilan cries. She’s so unhappy and I’m so helpless. But even if I hide myself in the farthest corners of the estate, I can still hear her heart-rending wails.
***
Weeks go by and there comes a morning that begins with weeping and harsh words, a quarrel between my in-laws. Curiosity pulls me away from the temple and to the main house, where Mrs. Kwan dawdles by the door and Dali is sweeping steps that are already clean. Old Kwan and Old Ming loiter in the main courtyard, within earshot of the house.
“It’s your fault she’s dead, our daughter-in-law, and the grandson she was carrying!”
“Be reasonable, Wife.” I can tell Gong Gong is nonplussed, and so am I. Jia Po has never raised her voice to him.
“I’ve been reasonable for thirty years! I’ve been reasonable while you frittered away my dowry on monuments to your dead ancestors. Reasonable when you couldn’t spare a thought for the living!”
“It was an accident—” he protests.
“It was your negligence! That railing broke because it should have been replaced ten years ago, no, twenty years ago! Instead you wasted a fortune on books and snuff bottles, on useless, useless things!”
More shouting, and a door slams. Heavy footsteps sound on the staircase, and the servants scatter as Gong Gong storms out the door, Baizhen at his heels. My husband looks embarrassed more than anxious.
“Son, pack me a suitcase and send it to the Eight Willows Guest House. Ming! Old Ming! Call me a rickshaw! At once!”
***
“
Wah, wah,
I’ve never heard the Mistress shout at the Master.” The day after the excitement, Old Ming is comparing notes with Mrs. Kwan and Dali. “No wonder he refuses to come home, he’s never been treated this way before.”
“You say the Master’s hired your son to fix up the cottage on Infant Mountain?” Dali asks. “If the Master moves to the cottage, will they divorce?”
Mrs. Kwan says in disdain, “They’re not Shanghai society, Dali. They’re too old for such nonsense. When will the Master move into the cottage, Ming?”
“In a few weeks, as soon as it’s ready,” says Old Ming, stroking his goatee. “My sixth grandson has agreed to live there with the Master, to do his cooking and housekeeping.”
“Hmmm.” Mrs. Kwan sounds doubtful. “Tell your sixth grandson to stop by whenever he’s in town. Old Kwan will cook up a few of the Master’s favourites for him.”
Dali picks up her basket and sets out for the market, ready to share her new stock of gossip. In a few hours all Pinghu will know that the patriarch of the Lee family has fallen out with his wife and moved out of the family home.
While Old Ming’s son works on the cottage, Gong Gong shuttles between the Eight Willows Guest House and our home on a daily basis. Sometimes it’s to fetch an extra pair of trousers, or because he has letters to write. Sometimes he slips a few of his antique books in a satchel to take away. When he passes Jia Po in the courtyard, he speaks to her courteously, hope barely disguised on his face. But she remains cold to him. She spends her days in her room and emerges one afternoon with a stack of letters for Old Ming to post. They’re addressed to members of her family in far-off Hunan.
Baizhen pleads with his mother to reconcile with Gong Gong.
“It looks bad for the family if you and Father live apart. What will people think?”
“Let your father worry about what people think. He cares more about keeping up appearances than our family’s welfare.” Her words are tinged with bitterness.
“Mother, you can’t blame him for everything,” Baizhen says, trying to reason with her.
“He thinks only of himself!” she snaps. “Do you know what it’s costing to fix up that cottage? We can barely feed ourselves and now we have to maintain two households.”
“Father said he’s sold more of his books.”
“He spent a fortune on those books! But not on your education, so that you could earn a living. He should have found you a better tutor, sent you to boarding school. Look how quickly you learned to read and write after Leiyin arrived.” She bursts into tears. “My beautiful, clever daughter-in-law. My grandson!”