The Ghost Bride (14 page)
I
stared at him, trying to read his expression. I couldn’t imagine why he would tell me such a thing, unless he was bent on confessing his misdeeds. Or perhaps he really was as frank and open as his countenance had always suggested. How well did I really know him anyway?
“It’s a terrible thing to say,” he said, “but we never got along. He was jealous. And I wasn’t very kind to him when we were younger. You know my father was the elder brother?”
“I heard. You should have been—well, you are the rightful heir to the Lim family, are you not?” I said. It seemed beyond the bounds of good taste to talk about other people’s private family matters, but I had to press on.
“Yes, but I was a child when my parents died and my uncle took over the business.”
“Surely it was cruel of your uncle to deprive you of your inheritance?”
“You don’t understand. My uncle loves me, you see.”
My surprise must have shown on my face. From servants’ gossip, as well as his treatment of my father, I had no warm feelings toward his uncle.
Tian Bai cast a swift glance at me. “My uncle can be difficult, but he has his virtues as well. I think Lim Tian Ching always sensed that his father preferred me and resented it bitterly. My uncle was caught between us, as well as the wishes of his wife.”
“Madam Lim seems like a complicated person.” I chose my words carefully, hoping that he would stay on this topic.
“You can’t blame her in some ways. She loved her own son dearly. I often regret I wasn’t around when he died and that she was the first one to find him.”
“You weren’t at home?” Hope was rising in my chest.
“I was up at Port Dickson, inspecting a ship.”
I turned away to hide my mounting relief. Lim Tian Ching must have lied to me! I remembered Old Wong’s warning not to trust ghosts. Surely, however, I could trust Tian Bai? I wanted to believe him so much.
“Does the prospect of a ship please you so much?” I could hear the smile in his voice without turning around. “If you like, you can see one today.”
“Yes,” I replied without thinking, forgetting that I would have to conjure up a convincing ship. At the door he paused.
“But I meant to ask, how is it that you’re here?” His gaze flickered down the plain house clothes that Amah had dressed my body in.
I hesitated. If I told him the truth, he might shrink from me as a wandering spirit. “My amah is waiting outside,” I said. Worse and worse—I couldn’t possibly manage an imaginary Amah as well. “Maybe another time.”
“Perhaps you’re right. After all—” He stopped and had the grace to look awkward.
“The marriage,” I said in sudden comprehension. “You’re to marry the daughter of the Quah family.”
“Li Lan!” Tian Bai reached out and grasped my hand. To my surprise, he caught hold of it instead of slipping right through my immaterial form. I kept forgetting that we were in a dreamworld and in this place he believed that I was just as alive as he was. I felt a tremendous sadness even as the warmth of his hand, the first human touch I had experienced for a long time, seeped into mine.
“Don’t be sad,” he said, misunderstanding me. “I didn’t arrange that marriage and I haven’t yet agreed to it.”
“But my father said the contracts were signed already.”
“Not by my hand. My uncle wishes it, though.”
“What will happen if you don’t agree?”
“Then he’ll disinherit me.”
“Is the marriage so important, then?” I said in dismay.
“If Lim Tian Ching had lived, this would have been his match, not mine. The Quah family has certain trading interests that dovetail with ours.”
“And if he had lived, would you have married me?” I couldn’t keep a note of wistfulness from my voice. Lim Tian Ching seemed to be always between us.
“Do you need to ask?”
“But you hardly know me.”
“I knew of the arrangement before I left for Hong Kong.”
“Was it made so long ago?” I was surprised, for my father’s rambling account had been vague about this “understanding.”
Tian Bai drew closer. “They talked about it when we were children. Or perhaps I should say, when you were a child. I must confess that initially I was a little concerned. You were only seven when it was first mentioned.” I tried to pull away, but he tugged my hand back. “There I was, almost sixteen, and they said I was betrothed to a little girl in pigtails. But later I did some asking around of my own.”
“And who did you ask?”
“That would be revealing my secrets.” He smiled at me and I was caught. His eyes darkened, their gaze intensifying. Breathless, I was acutely aware of how close he stood.
Tian Bai tilted my face toward him, running his hand down my neck and shoulders. His hand was warm and dry where it trailed across my skin. I could feel the heat rising from his body through his thin cotton shirt, his arms sliding up to encircle me. He smelled clean, like the sea. The skin of his throat was so near that I could reach out and press my lips against it. His hands, firm and smooth, were sliding up my back. I closed my eyes, feeling his breath hover against my eyelids, his lips barely brushing them so that I could feel their warmth. When they reached the corner of my mouth, he paused for a long moment.
I had been holding my breath and now exhaled, my lips parting involuntarily. Tian Bai pressed his mouth against mine. Amazed, I could feel the warmth of his lips, the moist heat of his tongue. He kissed me, slowly at first and then harder. My heart was pounding, my hands caught in the thin fabric of his shirt. Then he let me go.
“You should go home. It would ruin your reputation if you were discovered here alone with me.”
I was overcome with embarrassment, so flustered that I hardly knew where to look.
Tian Bai looked stricken. “It does no good to do this. Not for you, or me.”
“I suppose you’d better defer to your uncle’s wishes.” The words came out more bitterly than I’d meant.
“My uncle has his ideas, but I have no intention of deferring to all of them.” For the first time, I heard the flint in his voice. The open expression that gave his face such charm disappeared, and I was surprised at how distant he looked.
“And what do you propose instead?” I knew the weight of family opinion in such matters. It seemed hopeless.
“My aunt, in fact, doesn’t support the marriage. She feels it’s too painful to see her son’s match be given to another.”
“He’s dead,” I said drily.
“Of course.” The atmosphere between us was suddenly strained. Tian Bai fingered a small wooden horse, exquisitely carved in every detail. I longed to ask him more questions about the marriage, but had no grounds to object. I couldn’t even bring myself to tell him that I was, if not dead, then almost dead myself. I feared he would recoil from me, and I dreaded to lose this moment of physical contact, dream though it might be.
“I should go,” I said at last, although I had no wish to do so. It was just that I had no idea of what to do next. How could I ask him to burn hell money for me or buy paper funeral goods? The thought made me feel even more disconsolate.
“There’s just one thing,” I said. “Please. Promise me you’ll do it, even if it makes no sense to you.”
“What is it?”
“Can you dedicate a drawing to me? The doctor said that I should have someone draw a picture of a horse or a carriage and burn it in my name.”
He frowned, but I hurried onward, unhappy with my own deception. “I know you don’t believe in such superstitions, but it would help my situation. Anything you like, just a picture of some kind of conveyance or even a donkey.”
“And I’m to write your name on it? What is this supposed to accomplish?”
I heard the skeptical note in his voice again and thought rapidly. “It’s supposed to carry off my illness, but my father won’t permit it at home.”
My halting explanation worked, for his expression softened. “Of course. Why didn’t you tell me?” Immediately I felt terrible. Why didn’t I tell him the truth anyway? But I feared that he would give up on me, consent to the Quah marriage if there was nobody else to marry—just the shell of a girl lying on a bed in a darkened room. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was to bitterly regret this decision.
I
t was difficult to leave Tian Bai, but I told myself that I would return as soon as possible. Far better if this dream ended so that he would believe that it had actually occurred, for I needed him to burn some form of transport for me so that I would be able to journey to the Plains of the Dead. But perhaps at our next meeting. My mind was already leaping ahead, imagining other, less modest, scenarios. I remembered the feel of his hands on me, the heat of his mouth. Once again I thought of Fan and began to understand how she might have frittered years away on this kind of dream life with her lover. As it was, it took a great deal of willpower to sever our connection. I concentrated hard, imagining that Tian Bai saw me into a rickshaw with a silent Amah. Then I left him with the thought that he had lain down on the cot again and fallen asleep.
L
eaving the warehouses behind, I began to walk desultorily along the shore though my thoughts kept returning to Tian Bai. I couldn’t help feeling angry with myself; I had failed to tell him how things really stood. I was a coward, or perhaps my daydreams that he would instantly understand me were simply naive. Still, I was drawn to him. I didn’t know if this was love, but it made me tremble, both elated and afraid. I wondered if he felt the same way and how many other women he had kissed. My skin recalled the sensation of his hand as it had slid across my shoulder blades and up my neck, and I had the sudden image of the three small moles on Isabel Souza’s pale nape.
The sound of waves and the cries of gulls grew louder as I picked my way through the coarse salt grass. The Straits of Malacca face due west and the sun was beginning to set, hovering over the waters and turning everything to a pure and brilliant gold. A few enormous clouds hung in the sky like the islands of an enchanted land; below on the sands, fishermen dragged their wooden boats in and spread their nets to dry. It struck me: If I could penetrate Tian Bai’s dreams with the filament composed of the strength of my feelings, did that mean that Lim Tian Ching had such a thread too? I recalled how Madam Lim had requested the ribbon from my hair when I first visited their house, though it must be a one-way connection. I thought of how weak and unstable the link had always seemed, and was grateful that he didn’t seem able to find me anymore.
With a start, I realized that the fishermen were now far behind. Beside me was the fringe of coconut groves and farther ahead, where the sand ended, the dark mass of mangroves that grows its roots into the saltwater. I had never been so isolated from humans in my life. Even wandering the streets of Malacca, I had been aware of other people busy about their own affairs. Now I began to consider what other spirits might emerge with the night. There might be were-tigers in the jungle, and other dark spirits, like the bloodsucking
polong
or the grasshopper-like
pelesit
, who could see me. Fear seeped into my heart and I turned back under the darkening sky.
As I scrambled down a sandbank, I saw a figure standing at the water’s edge. It wore a broad-brimmed bamboo hat and a robe with a hem of silver thread. With surprise, I realized it was the young man who had consulted the medium before me, and if I were right, the same man who had been standing outside the Lim mansion the previous evening. There were far too many coincidences about this. Emboldened by my invisibility, I began to make my way down the culvert, sliding in the crumbling sand. Although I was certain that I made no sound, he abruptly strode off at a great pace.
Looking back, I have no good explanation for my actions. I really ought to have retraced my steps, perhaps returning to Tian Bai’s office to retrieve the thread that I had forgotten. Foolish! I should have asked him to keep my comb upon his person so that I could easily find him again. These thoughts skittered through my mind like a lizard running through long grass, even as my legs, moving as though they had a will of their own, went stumbling and skipping off after the man in the bamboo hat. He moved away from the shore toward the low mass of mangrove trees. I hoped that he would not go into the mangroves themselves, for they grow in sulfurous mud, their roots raising them above the seawater and providing a buffer between the land and the sea. I had passed a mangrove swamp on one of our childhood drives through the countryside, and I had never forgotten its putrescent smell, nor the strange fruit of the trees precipitously growing a pointed root while still attached to the branch, so that when the fruit fell it would instantly root itself in the mud.
As the man strode along, I openly hurried after him, confident that he couldn’t see me. At the edge of the mangroves, he stopped. His head, with its peculiar headgear, swept from side to side as though searching for something, though I still caught no glimpse of his face. Feeling uneasy in the open, I slipped into the shadowy tangle of the mangrove trees. The mud supported my light form so that I could walk on the surface as though upon a thin crust. On an impulse, I climbed a tree. Given my lack of mass, it was surprisingly easy and soon I found myself lying far out upon a branch that would not ordinarily have supported a monkey, gazing down at the stranger.
Now that I had the leisure to examine him, I was struck by the eccentricity of his garb. With the exception of some adoption of Malay clothes, most Straits-born Chinese wore the high-collared costume of China, though strictly speaking this attire wasn’t Chinese at all. My father had told me a little of this history, and how the Manchus, a non-Chinese race from the north, had conquered China and forced their new subjects to adopt Manchu clothing, including the male practice of shaving half the head and braiding the rest of the hair in a queue. There had been great resistance to this, for the Chinese men felt it was shameful to shave their heads. Public executions, however, ensured that the antique dress of Han China was now almost never seen.
The man in the bamboo hat was wearing Han clothing. That is to say, he wore a robe tied crossover, the left over the right, and bound by a broad sash. Beneath it he wore loose trousers and boots. I recognized this garb because it was used in books, paintings, and historic plays. In fact, the thought crossed my mind that he was perhaps an actor from some operatic troupe, and if so, I might have wasted my time on a fool’s errand.
