Three Souls (42 page)

Gong Gong decides that all three generations of the family must pay a visit to the Temple of Soul’s Enlightenment to make offerings of thanks for the birth of little Weihong.

“But what will you do while I’m gone?” Weilan asks Nanmei, confident in the way children are that others can’t function without them.

“I’ll write letters. You’ve kept me so busy, I haven’t written to my friends. They’ll think I’ve vanished.”

“Will you tell them about me?”

“Of course. I’ll tell them you’re short and bad at arithmetic.”

An indignant shriek of protest and giggles, but before Weilan can answer, Little Ming calls up from the courtyard.

“Little Mistress, the rickshaws are here. We must hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

The rickshaws depart and the servants withdraw to the kitchen to enjoy a precious hour of leisure. They huddle around the kitchen stove, sharing gossip and a bowl of salted peanuts. Ah Jiao sleeps in Mrs. Kwan’s arms, accustomed now to being passed around among the servants.

In the library, Nanmei sets out some writing materials. But she doesn’t do any writing. Instead she steals again into my bedroom, opens all the drawers she’s opened before. She even removes them to look beneath each one. She lifts pictures from the wall and pries open their frames, one by one.

When she first began these secret explorations I had suspected her of looking for money or jewellery. Now I’m certain she’s looking for Hanchin’s manifesto.

Could she be the courier assigned to collect the manifesto? But it was Tongyin who arranged for her tutoring job. Is she on the Nationalist side then, working for Tongyin?

Nanmei replaces my photograph in its frame and adjusts its cardboard mat, then hangs it back on the wall. She touches the glass over my face and sighs.

Next she opens the storage trunk containing my winter clothes and lifts them out even though she’s done this before. The plum-coloured jacket, my blue student blazer, which I couldn’t bear to give away, in the hope that someday Weilan would wear it to my old school. Nanmei takes out dark-hued winter vests padded with silk batting, a green velvet tunic and skirt embroidered with butterflies. She runs her hands over them all, searches in the pockets, and refolds them. At the very bottom of the trunk, beneath a stack of pillowcases, she finds something she hasn’t seen in her previous, candlelit searches. A man’s handkerchief, a much-washed green-and-grey plaid. She tucks the handkerchief into her vest pocket and with carefully controlled motions returns my clothes to the trunk.

Back in her room, she falls on the bed and sobs without restraint. She unfolds the square of faded cotton and holds it to her face, breathing in deeply. Tears run down her cheeks and she rocks back and forth in anguish, her face buried in Hanchin’s handkerchief.

“Oh, my husband, my life’s companion. Come back, come back to me!”

***

So that’s who she really is.
My souls and I stare at Nanmei as she muffles her sobs in her pillow.

After I realized how Hanchin had used me, I’d done my best to push him out of my mind. But jealous and angry thoughts, unpredictable as wreckage carried over rapids, would sometimes catch me by surprise. I had never stopped wondering what sort of woman he had married.

I wonder what Nanmei gave up for Hanchin’s sake.
My
yin
soul voices my thoughts. Her brow furrows in sympathy for Nanmei and she approaches the bed as if to comfort the weeping woman.

There was a time when you would have been jealous of her for marrying the man you loved but couldn’t have,
my
yang
soul says. He watches me carefully.

Now I’m dead. And when I see her cry, I grieve for her.

Ah, because she is a widow?
my
hun
soul asks.

I shake my head.
No, because she loved a man who was unworthy of her.

24

N
anmei opens the top drawer of the old bureau in her bedroom and pulls out a diary with a detachable cloth cover. When she removes the cover, I see a pocket sewn to its inside, a pocket containing two small photographs.

The first is a wedding photograph, hand-tinted. The couple wears traditional high-necked tunics of simple design; Nanmei’s bridal status is made obvious only by the artificial flowers she holds to her chest. She is joyous, her plump face beams out at the camera. Hanchin’s familiar smile is a little ironic, patient. Nanmei sets this photo down gently on the bureau top. The second photograph is one I recognize. I have a copy myself. It’s in an album I’d left behind in Changchow, along with just about everything else from my school years. In it, Nanmei and I are side by side at a podium. Behind us is a banner for the debate club. This image had been published in our school yearbook with the caption
Most likely to marry politicians.

Nanmei studies our faces, our pert, confident smiles. Then she takes from the drawer a sheet of flimsy blue paper and a pencil, and begins to write:

My dearest Husband,

I guessed you were here, that you came to Leiyin for help. Now I know you found her. I knew that even if you told her about us, she would still have helped you. She was a good friend and a good person. I regret nothing, Hanchin. I don’t care that my family disowned me. I don’t care about all those years in poor farming villages, living in mud-brick shacks. Even being apart so often, you in the city, me teaching in rural schools, I was happy. We were building a new China together.

But of course Hanchin never told me he was married, let alone to my best friend. He knew the depths of my infatuation, knew I would be jealous and angry, and manipulated me in his own way. Nanmei has a better opinion of me than I deserve. And now I know that she was teaching school in the country while Hanchin returned to soft beds and city life in Changchow and Shanghai, to run his spy network. But why is she writing a letter to a dead man?

She pulls out another sheet and begins writing again:

Dear Leiyin,

As soon as I met Hanchin, I understood why you loved him. You never knew I delivered all your letters to his office personally instead of putting them in the post. He was so kind, so attentive, so willing to take the time to chat with me. I told him I would be attending university in Soochow, a less prestigious school than yours. I envied you so much, your university, your romance, your future.

After I arrived at my aunt’s home in Soochow, my sister let me know in a letter that your marriage, so sudden, was the talk of the town. Then Hanchin came to see me. He had taken a teaching job in Soochow and decided to look me up. I was so flattered.

Do you remember when we promised to write to each other every week? But we didn’t, and now you’re gone. I am so sorry. But I’m writing to you now.

She crumples up both letters and drops them in her wastebasket, an old tin bucket that’s missing its handle. She lights a match and kneels down to watch the pages burn.

Outside, a babble of voices announces the family’s return from the temple. Nanmei hides her photographs and slips the cloth cover over the diary. She pushes the book to the rear of the drawer and shuts it, and by the time Weilan bounds upstairs Nanmei is in the library, quietly writing letters.

***

I ride in the rickshaw facing Baizhen and Tongyin. My brother descended from the train with two suitcases; he and my husband are sitting with their feet propped up on the luggage.

“My mother looks forward to seeing you again,” says Baizhen. “Your last visit was the liveliest evening we’d had in years.”

I remembered that visit. The
mah-jong,
the drinking. Tongyin telling me about Hanchin’s wife.

“With your new son, the house must be quite lively every day.”

“Yes, it is. But it’s different. The whole household revolves around the baby.”

“I hope your wife doesn’t mind. After all, I’m a reminder of your first wife.”

“Nonsense! You’re my brother-in-law and Weilan’s uncle. Death does not cut the ties of family. Why, do you remember the Wu and Kang families my mother mentioned on your last visit? They continue to call each other kin, even though the Kang boy died a few months after the betrothal.”

“So the Wu girl is now considered a widow?”

“Almost, almost. Her parents are finding another husband for her, but the Kang family gets a say in the decision. A mere courtesy of course.”

***

When Tongyin appears for dinner, his arms are loaded with packages that he puts down on a side table before bowing deeply to Gong Gong and Jia Po.

“Please accept some gifts from our family, with congratulations on the birth of an heir.”

Gong Gong is visibly moved. “Not a day goes by that we don’t cherish the memory of your sister. Tomorrow, we’ll show you her ancestral tablet in the family temple. Weilan can offer incense along with you.”

“Exactly. Those were my intentions. To offer incense to my sister. Perhaps I could see the schoolroom tomorrow. I’d like to report back to my eldest brother that all is well with our little niece’s education.”

It’s a sham on Tongyin’s part, I’m sure of it. A letter of congratulations for the birth of little Weihong would have been enough. Perhaps a red envelope with some token amount of cash, or a gift of tea and ginseng—all this could have been arranged easily by Changyin’s secretary. There was no need for Tongyin to come in person.

Old Kwan had been ordered to splurge on this meal. Fish soup thick with strands of beaten egg appeared on the table, a jellied pork terrine, fragrant tea-smoked duck, and river crabs steamed with ginger and wine. The liquor, once again, is fine cognac, a gift from Tongyin.

Weilan isn’t present. She and Nanmei are eating in the nursery with Little Ming and the baby. After supper Jia Po sends for them. Weihong, in Little Ming’s arms, receives most of his grandparents’ attention and words of praise from Tongyin.

“Such healthy colour in his cheeks. What a solid little arm.”

That’s the extent of what my brother can say about babies. He turns his attention to Nanmei.

“Teacher Wang, I hear your work is excellent. Yes, excellent,” he says. “I look forward to talking with you tomorrow, perhaps when Weilan is taking a nap.”

She bows her head. “Any time you wish tomorrow, Mr. Song.”

Then she gives Weilan a tap on the shoulder, a small push forward.

“Good night, Second Uncle,” my daughter says, her voice confident. “I’d like to recite some poetry for you tomorrow if you have time.”

“I would be delighted, Little One.”

I feel proud of Weilan’s poise, and know that Baizhen feels the same because he pats Weilan’s head approvingly when she passes his chair on her way out. Tongyin’s eyes follow her.

“How is your stepmother?” Jia Po asks. “We used to enjoy her letters to Leiyin. So much useful advice.”

“Ah, you mean my father’s concubine. She is well, very well. As competent as ever, yes, still running the house like a general.”

I have to smile. Even though Geeling is the clan matriarch now, she is no match for Stepmother and Head Servant Lu.

“Weilan is a lovely little girl,” Tongyin says, clearing his throat. “Very lovely. Very bright. Have you thought about her marriage?”

I don’t know why, but my heart lurches in fear at his words.

“I must confess,” says Baizhen, “I haven’t thought about it much, she’s not yet seven years old. But one reason we wanted a tutor for her is that with an education, her prospects might be better.”

Jia Po sighs. I know she’s thinking about the dowry.

“So you’re thinking of a local family?” Tongyin continues.

“Her mother”—and here Baizhen falters a little—“your sister hoped Weilan could marry a young man of good family from Changchow, or one of the cities. Someone with a university degree. That’s only natural, coming from a family as sophisticated as yours.”

“Since we’re all family here,” Jia Po interrupts, “let’s be frank. All we can give Weilan is a small dowry and our family’s good name. Only another Pinghu family would put any value on our name, so when the time comes, we’ll probably arrange for Weilan to marry a local boy.”

The air around her crackles with recriminations. With a grandson in the nursery, Jia Po is much happier but there are still times when her bitterness toward Gong Gong wells up. Gong Gong stares into the deep amber liquid in his cup.

Tongyin smiles and leans across the table.

“I feel some obligation to help my dear sister’s child. May I offer a suggestion?”

“We welcome your advice!” Baizhen cries. “We’re just small-town folk.”

“It’s true that dowries still matter, alas. However, in some of the more progressive families, if there are strong personal ties between the families and good accounts of the girl’s qualities, dowries are but a small part of the overall criteria.”

He has their full attention and mine as well.

“You see, Mother,” exclaims Baizhen. “Times are changing!”

“Take, for example, the Cha clan in Shanghai,” continues Tongyin. “They’re very progressive. General Cha was educated at West Point, a military school in America. He has four sons. His eldest is married. Two others are betrothed. I know for a fact that dowries were only a small part of the decisions. The youngest boy is not yet matched.”

My spine is an icicle. If I had a voice I would be screaming by now. If ghostly hands had strength, I would be wringing Tongyin’s neck.

“General Cha!” Gong Gong exclaims. “You know his family?”

“Yes, I do.” Tongyin nods modestly. “Absolutely. Yes, I went to university with his son. We’re also in business together.” He helps himself to more duck.

“But what about the dowries?” Jia Po prompts impatiently.

“The Cha family doesn’t need the money, you understand. Their first consideration is intelligence and discretion. Think of the social position the wives must uphold. They must know how to cultivate connections that help the Cha family.”