Three Souls (19 page)

Baizhen blurted this out one day after his parents had vacated the parlour. After speaking, he flushed crimson. I was able to hide my dismay by lowering my eyes to the newspaper in my lap. From then on, I spent an hour or more each afternoon reading the news to my husband. It allowed me to appear to be attentive to him while avoiding any actual conversation.

***

I was so angry with Father that day. Baizhen could barely read. About as much as a seven- or eight-year-old.

My souls rustle, echoing my remembered distress. And disgust.

Leiyin, your father-in-law collected rare copies of the classics.
My
yin
soul picks at the edge of a handkerchief, her voice patient, as though explaining to a child. I smell iris.
How could your father have suspected that such a man could have a near-illiterate son?

Do you mean he should have taken more time to investigate, as parents are supposed to, instead of marrying me off to the first stranger who came along?

I’m sure if he’d known—
my
yin
soul begins.

No, not even if he had known,
I interrupt.
He didn’t cancel Sueyin’s engagement even after we discovered Liu Tienzhen was an opium addict. So I’m sure even if he’d known about Baizhen, he wouldn’t have called off the wedding.

My
yang
soul clears his throat uneasily.
That is your family’s hallmark. You have a reputation for keeping your word.
All the same, I can tell the old man is hard pressed to defend my father. Turnips flavour my tongue.

You no longer lived at home and didn’t have to face your father,
my
hun
soul says. It shimmers along the periphery of the terrace.
Baizhen, however, you saw every day. I hope you weren’t obvious in your scorn.

I suppose we’ll know soon enough whether I was kind or cruel to him.

10

W
hat I lived for were letters from my sisters.

The first time one of the creamy envelopes arrived, carried in on a tray with the newspaper and other correspondence, I felt sick with anxiety at the sight of the familiar stationery.

“Ah, a letter for Leiyin,” Gong Gong said, reading the address. “From your sister in Shanghai.”

He held it out and I rose from my seat to take it. I returned to my chair and felt his eyes on me as I slid a brass paper knife under the wax seal. I pulled out the letter, two stiff pages, and he held out his hand again. I stood and passed them to him, keeping the envelope on the small table beside my chair. He didn’t ask for it.

“This is good news indeed,” he said, scanning the letter. “Your sister says the doctor assures her the baby will be a boy. Her husband is in banking, is he not?”

“The Zhao family owns tea plantations in three provinces. My brother-in-law manages their warehouses and the export business.” All I wanted was for everyone to go take their naps. But I couldn’t show impatience.

Baizhen picked up the empty envelope from the table and stroked it. “This is such beautiful paper. Is it foreign?”

“It’s from England,” I said, resisting the urge to slap his hand. “I have a large supply of the same stationery. You’re welcome to use it, Husband.”

“No, there’s no need. I was just admiring the paper.”

The afternoon felt like eternity. When Jia Po and Gong Gong finally left for their rooms, I read the newspaper to Baizhen.

“There’s an article about tensions in Tibet over territories ruled by warlords. Are you interested?” I struggled to remove the irritation from my voice.

“Thank you, Wife, but no. Let’s return to our house now.”

I tucked Gaoyin’s letter into my tunic, stifled my terse reply.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Baizhen fell asleep. I got up from the bed and dressed quietly. I slipped out the door, taking the softest of steps as I climbed the staircase to the veranda. In my little library, I hurried to the desk and pulled a letter opener out of the drawer. Sliding the thin blade carefully along the envelope’s flap, I separated the blue tissue from the small dabs of glue holding it down, then pulled out a small sheet of paper almost as thin as the tissue:

Dearest Third Sister,

Shen is so happy about my pregnancy he has completely forgotten about my role in your escape. I think Father has forgiven me too, because Stepmother writes that he is very excited about becoming a grandfather again. How are you? Our brothers told Sueyin all about your wedding. She told me Father seemed distressed by the state of the Lees’ home and disappointed by your husband’s lack of interest in the classics. I miss you. Write soon.

I smoothed out the paper and read her words again and again, imagining her quick and confident voice speaking those words to me. I didn’t dare keep the secret letter, however. I made a trip to the outhouse and ripped up the thin paper, watched the shreds flutter down the dark pit.

A day later, another letter arrived, this time from Sueyin. She described the latest soiree she and Tienzhen had hosted, naming a few starlets and directors:

My husband is very pleased. His evenings are gaining a reputation for bringing talented young actors to the attention of directors and producers. The director Zhang Xichuan has invited us to the Shanghai premiere of his latest film, The Girl Detective.

Gong Gong grunted when he handed me the letter. He didn’t approve of film stars.

Alone, I read Sueyin’s secret letter:

Tienzhen is only interested in two things: the films and his opium pipe. Now he joins the actors when they read scripts. He’d like to be an actor but the Judge would never allow anyone in his family to pursue the cinema.

Since he returned from your wedding I’ve seen Second Brother only once. He’s rather critical of your husband. But your husband’s appearance and education don’t matter to me as long as he’s kind to you, Little Sister. Father is very reserved when I ask about your in-laws. I sense he regrets a hasty decision made in anger.

My father might be feeling regret but I was the one who had to live with the consequences. When I wrote back, I described for my sisters the Lee property, Gong Gong’s collection of rare books, and the town:

There is a temple with a thirteen-storey pagoda called the Temple of Soul’s Enlightenment. The Buddha in this temple is supposed to be especially sympathetic to the spirits of the newly dead.

Then I cut a thin sheet of paper in half and wrote to my sisters: two identical letters in the tiniest script possible:

I’m trying to get used to a quiet life. Here the dining table is set for four, nothing like the boisterous meals at home. My husband, it turns out, is nearly illiterate. Which of us has the worse bargain? Second Sister with her opium addict or me with an uneducated dunce? Tell Father that.

After lunch the next day, I placed the unsealed envelopes on the red lacquer tray that was used for the mail. Gong Gong flipped them open and read my letters. He nodded his approval before placing them back for Old Ming to post.

There was no point in telling my sisters about Hanchin. I didn’t want them to know how naive I had been. There was no need for deception, just omission. If only I’d confided in them sooner, they might have warned me.

***

But do you think you would have listened to them?
my
hun
soul asks.
Why didn’t you tell your sisters about Hanchin when you were still at home? You’re dead now, be honest with yourself. You have nothing to lose by it.

Everything seemed so complicated then.
I pause before answering.
If they’d thought Hanchin was encouraging me, that I’d been alone with him, they would have seen that as bad for my reputation. They would have told Father.

My
yin
soul kneels on the stone steps to pet a stray cat, a calico who rubs up against her small hand.
Tongyin probably guessed you were infatuated with Hanchin. But he didn’t raise the alarm.

Tongyin was in love with Hanchin and didn’t want him banned from our home any more than I did. Anyway, he never believed Hanchin cared about me.

Hanchin made advances to you when he knew he didn’t stand a chance of marrying you.
My
yang
soul thumps his cane on the ground and the calico cat leaps away, startled.
Didn’t that tell you something about his character?

Leiyin never would have kissed anyone unless she was in love,
my
yin
soul says. She tries to coax the cat back.
She assumed it was the same for him.

***

I received one letter from Nanmei, forwarded to me by Stepmother. My friend’s words were awkward, formal congratulations on my marriage and a stilted account of her life at university in Soochow. I imagined the difficulty Nanmei must have had trying to write it. She knew how her descriptions of classes and new friends would only hurt me. She knew better than anyone how this marriage had ruined my dreams. Thankfully, she didn’t mention Hanchin. I didn’t know whether this was out of consideration for my feelings or a suspicion that my letters were not private.

I read her letter only once. It stirred too many emotions in me, envy so sharp I could taste its iron tang, regrets as abundant as autumn rains. I couldn’t bear the memories of the two of us giggling together over my audacious plans, blithely ignorant of the ruin I was about to inflict upon my life. I couldn’t bear the thought of her pity. Nor could I risk her accidentally giving away my secrets in a letter. My married life was unbearable enough already:

Dear Wang Nanmei,

Thank you for your letter. It brings back memories of when we used to do homework together, our discussions about the Russian novels, and our arguments about Anna Karenina. You took the position that Anna was foolish to write letters that could be used against her.

Now that I’m married, Changchow and all my friends seem very far away, and those days so very long ago. My husband and in-laws are very kind to me, I couldn’t ask for more.

I wish you every success at university.

Song Leiyin

And with that, I cut myself off from another reminder of Hanchin. I hoped Nanmei would understand. I believed she would.

To my surprise, I received the latest issue of
China Millennium
in the mail from Tongyin
.
There was also a note, a few untidy scrawled lines:

Greetings, Little Sister,

Sometimes I take the editor out for a meal and he gives me a couple of free copies. I’ll try to send you an issue every so often. No promises.

I examined the brown paper wrapper. The address wasn’t in Tongyin’s handwriting. He must have tossed the journal to a servant with instructions to mail it.

Gong Gong scanned the journal, his lips tight with disapproval.

“This is a leftist publication. I’m surprised your brother sends you such magazines to read.”

I kept my voice calm and reasonable.

“My father encourages us to read all points of view. He believes that understanding an ideology, no matter how flawed it is, helps us appreciate the virtues of our Nationalist system even more.”

Gong Gong grumbled under his breath but gave the magazine back to me. The issue’s feature article was by Hanchin:

DISPATCHES FROM THE FRONT LINES OF RURAL EDUCATION

Readers will recall how often I have praised the efforts of schoolteachers in rural districts. After all those lofty words, it was time for me to put my beliefs to the test. Although many of my assignments will take me to remote towns, I’ll endeavour to send essays to this journal whenever possible.

I couldn’t even begin to guess why Tongyin would send me copies of the magazine. Was he taunting me, keeping my wounds fresh? Or was he being sympathetic in his own perverse way, sending news of the world without realizing that I had no chance of escaping this dull country town? I decided not to reply. Instead I wrote to Gaoyin and asked her to send me magazines or newspapers she had finished reading. Gong Gong subscribed exclusively to the
Central Daily News,
a staunchly Nationalist paper.

***

A few months after the wedding, my life changed again.

I bent over the porcelain chamber pot every morning, pale and heaving. I didn’t know which made me feel worse, the symptoms of pregnancy or the realization that a child would bind me inescapably to this house, to this town, to this husband. I tried to be discreet in case I was mistaken and just suffering from poor digestion.

But Little Ming reported to Mrs. Kwan that I spent my mornings vomiting and Mrs. Kwan reported the news to Jia Po. There was a flurry of activity, and Old Ming was sent around the corner to alert the doctor that I would be visiting. A rickshaw was called to the door even though the clinic was less than a ten-minute stroll away.

When I returned from the clinic with Jia Po, she was radiant with smiles, as excited as a little girl. Old Ming rushed out to help me down from the rickshaw. He grinned at us, delighted to be the first to receive confirmation of the news.

“Oh, my dear,” said my mother-in-law, “a baby in August! We must take very good care of you.”

She gave me a hurried hug and rushed toward the main house, calling for Mrs. Kwan. It was the first time she had addressed me with true affection. I knew her concern was for her unborn grandchild, not really for me, but I hadn’t realized until then how much I craved warmth. I had been living for months in perpetual twilight.