Secret of a Thousand Beauties (28 page)

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T
he next day, when I arrived at Our Lady of Sorrows Church with Little Doll, Ryan looked displeased.

He pulled me aside and said in a heated whisper, “You never answered my telegram! I’ve been extremely worried about you!” He looked over at Little Doll. “And who is this?”

I gave him a warning look and whispered back, “This is Little Doll. Remember I said I’d bring her to stay with us? She has no other place to go.”

I knew Ryan was not happy about this, but he couldn’t really object, not as a Christian and the Lord’s loving servant.

So Ryan greeted her in Chinese, but my little sister was so shy and a white ghost so strange to her that whenever he asked her questions, she’d avert her glance and burst into nervous giggles.

Eventually, I knew they would have to get used to each other. In the meantime, I took Little Doll to meet Father Edwin, who was gracious in welcoming her to “God’s house.” He called for the maid and told her that the newcomer would be sharing her room, but also helping her in her work.

Gradually Ryan and Little Doll became more comfortable with each other, and he even seemed to be starting to feel some affection for her. Father Edwin was very kind to my little sister, giving her some money for new clothes and reassuring her that the church was her home as long as she wanted to stay. Little Doll, in turn, did errands for Father Edwin and sometimes Ryan. My little sister was content to have a place called home where everyone was nice to her. She helped the maid with her chores without complaint and assisted me with the embroidery that we sold to raise money for the church.

Ryan taught Bible classes and catechism, as well as helping with church administration. I tried my best to take good care of him and also the baby growing inside me. Eight months pregnant, my belly was pointed, so I believed it’d be a boy.

When I asked Ryan if he’d prefer a boy or a girl, his answer was, “A girl, so she’ll look exactly like my beautiful wife.”

I didn’t consider myself beautiful, but nevertheless felt flattered to hear this from my husband. I was happy to be married and expecting. I still thought of Shen Feng and was troubled that I had failed to find his body. But I could no longer hope that he was still in this life.

To ease my mind, during prayers in church I would mention him in my thoughts and would silently say a sutra for him on occasions like the day we’d met, the date of his death, and, of course, the Qingming Festival. I’d also been thinking that I should look for Aunty Peony since I had promised Little Doll that I would try to get our “family” back. And I also hoped that somehow I would meet Purple again but had no idea of how to look for her.

 

The Lunar New Year was approaching. For our celebration, Ryan suggested taking Little Doll and me to a Peking opera performance to be held in the Compassionate Light Temple. I asked Ryan if he minded going to a Buddhist temple. He shook his head and went on to explain that it was the tradition for Chinese operas to be performed in the temple courtyards in the hope of attracting followers by providing free entertainment. Moreover, before the performance, the actors would carry out an elaborate ritual, praying and making offerings to the theater gods to ensure a smooth performance. I was pleased my Catholic husband appreciated Chinese customs and did not mind going to a rival religion’s temple.

Little Doll asked with curiosity, “Unkle Rai An, you mean there are other gods besides yours?”

“Little Doll,” Ryan laughed, “are you hungry? Why don’t we have our afternoon tea now?”

My little sister exclaimed, “Yes, my stomach is rumbling like the opera drums!”

This worked—Little Doll forgot to pursue the question that was too complicated for her Unkle Rai An to answer.

On New Year’s Eve we took the bus to the southern part of Peking, not too far from the famous Altar of Heaven. On the bustling street were many shops, some displaying red banners with lucky couplets for the New Year:

Along with the banners, red lanterns hung from rooftops added a festive touch to the street. Spring might be coming, but for now the people were covered in thick coats, steam coming from their mouths. Most looked happy, but not all. The latter were scurrying from house to house asking to “borrow” money, so they could celebrate the New Year with new clothes, sumptuous meals, firecrackers, and gifts for their children and their elders. It was feared that refusing to give money on the New Year would bring bad luck.

At the church we’d had a Western dinner, but now the aromas floating in the air made me yearn for the traditional New Year’s feast: hair seaweed with dried oyster, because
facai haoshi
sounds like “prosperous business will make a fortune.” There was also
hongyun dangtou,
a large fish head covered with red chilies to symbolize “big fortune right above your head.” Then a course of
dazhan hongtu,
marinated chicken wings meant to symbolize spreading your wings for a bright future, and, finally, kumquats to represent gold coins.

Here and there red envelopes of lucky money were being passed. Even the poor felt obligated to do this when children would wish them “endless money and treasures enter your house,” because otherwise the magic of their good-luck sayings would be gone.

Long lines formed in front of shops selling new clothes, because old clothes trap the worn-out
qi
of the year that is ending. For our special New Year’s outing, I’d spent two weeks making new clothes for all of us. For Little Doll’s and my jackets, I’d embroidered flowers, birds, and lucky characters. For Ryan’s Chinese coat, I had embroidered a dragon for success and positive
qi.
He seemed happy wearing his new Chinese clothes with his new Chinese wife, about to see a Chinese opera.

On the street, a few pedestrians cast us curious glances. But none looked hateful that I was with a foreign ghost, maybe because on Chinese New Year, a time for good luck and happiness, no one was supposed to think or say anything bad. Besides, Ryan seemed somehow to blend in.

Now we were at the green-roofed Compassionate Light Temple. Around the entrance hawkers were shouting out for us to buy food for the performance:

“Sweet soy bean, good for health and immunity!”

“Fried doughnut and sugar plum—balance your
yin
and
yang!
”

“Fresh scallion pancake, the best in town!”

“Stinky tofu! If not stinky, your money back!”

Other vendors were selling incense to offer inside the temple, bamboo baskets, toys, and tiny wooden stools for children to sit on during the performance.

Little Doll was completely fascinated by all of this. Ryan offered to buy her a snack or a toy, but she couldn’t decide if she wanted stinky tofu, sugar plum, a small basket, or a tiny, painted kite. Finally, Ryan purchased all of them, so now Little Doll was happily holding her basket with the sugar plum and kite inside while she ate stinky tofu smeared with hoisin sauce. Ryan, pretending to find the stink unbearable, covered his nostrils and walked apart from us. This made Little Doll giggle nonstop.

Pressed in by the crowd, we were soon inside a spacious courtyard. In the middle a huge bronze incense burner fogged the air with billows of smoke. Even here there were more items on sale—incense, small Buddha and Guan Yin statues, and other amulets like beads and talismans. Actually, because it was New Year’s, everything was free—but donations were expected. Ryan bought some colorful beads for all of us.

When I asked why he was now wearing Buddhist beads, he replied, “The Chinese say, ‘When entering a temple, kowtow and offer incense, when entering a foreign country, follow its customs.’ ” He winked. “I’m just being Chinese.”

As we continued to move with the crowd, we saw a large, makeshift stage set against the saffron temple wall. Because we had tarried on the shopping street, the performance was already in progress. To the right side of the stage, a small assembly of musicians was playing ferociously—flute,
erhu,
moon guitar,
pipa,
and a few other noisy instruments I didn’t recognize. On the stage itself, actors sang in high-pitched tones as they moved about, assuming ritualized postures. People either stood or sat on wooden stools, eyes intent and mouths ajar. The three of us squeezed our way toward the front, our feet crunching on discarded watermelon husks and chicken bones. The seats were filled, so we stood off to the side.

I leaned toward a middle-aged woman next to me and spoke to her in a low voice. “
Taitai,
what’s playing now?”

She turned to look us over, then pointed to a wooden plaque with red characters next to the stage: THE YANG FAMILY WOMAN WARRIORS.

She spoke with a heavy Shanghainese accent. “Now all the men in the Yang family have been killed on the battlefield so Grandma Yang is leading her daughters to fight.”

She glanced at Ryan, then back at me. “Miss, does your white ghost friend know that the female Yang members onstage are male actors disguised as women?”

“They’re men?”

“Of course.” She pointed a pudgy finger at a tall, handsome woman on stage. “See this one who plays the young daughter-in-law of Old Lady Xie?”

Onstage, the women warrior was prancing and singing, her armor sparkling heroically.

“She’s really good—is she famous?”

“She? Ha, it’s a him! You never heard of Snoring Cane?”

Two women in front turned to stare at us. “Shhh . . . lower your voices.”

But the woman ignored them and went on excitedly. “Snoring Cane is a man who can play a woman even better than a real woman. He’s amazing, isn’t he? He’s most famous for
The Drunken Concubine
and
Picking up the Jade Bracelet.
You really never heard of him?”

I shook my head. The name did sound familiar, but I didn’t know who he was.

“Miss, then you’re really lucky to see him tonight. Because he’d quit performing, but couldn’t turn down the temple’s invitation, because it would be bad karma. This way he’ll gain more merit by performing during New Year. This is his last performance, so I came all the way from Shanghai to see him.”

“Why did he quit performing?”

She smiled knowingly. “They say he met a very rich woman. So he retired early.”

I nodded, although I didn’t care about this opera singer’s rich lover, or his early retirement. I glanced over at my family and saw that Little Doll was now sitting on her uncle’s shoulders, looking very happy to have a full view.

Ryan was astonished when I told him that the woman warrior was, in fact, a man.

Onstage, Snoring Cane continued to show off his martial arts prowess, waving a long spear while wearing heavy armor with four flags. Thunderous applause exploded amidst shouts of
“Hao, hao!”
(“Wonderful!”)

But when the performance finished and all the actors were bowing, a woman’s voice rose above the cheering crowd.

“Dead man, go to hell!”

The insult was followed by a barrage of rotten meat and vegetables, obviously aimed at the opera singer Snoring Cane. Fortunately or not, they missed their target. This unexpected outburst caused an uproar. People looked around for the person who so bitterly hated this actor whom everyone else loved so dearly. But most of the audience seemed too busy arguing with each other to notice the old, shabbily dressed woman tottering her way toward the exit.

I nudged Ryan’s elbow. “Who would do something like this?”

“Must be some crazy fan with a crush on the performer. But, of course, he won’t care about her.”

That made sense. But somehow I had a feeling that I’d seen this woman before. I asked Ryan to stay with Little Doll for a few minutes during the intermission. Before he could question me, I’d already squeezed my way through the crowd and hurried outside the temple. I kept searching among the bustling crowd, until finally I thought I’d spotted the one who’d just thrown garbage at the opera singer. She was now moving from one vendor to the next, seemingly begging for food. So it seemed that Ryan was right, she was just a crazy fan. Finally a middle-aged vendor wrapped a pancake in newspaper and handed it to her. Grabbing the food without thanking her benefactor, she walked to a corner, stooped down, and began to eat voraciously.

I waited patiently until the old woman finished her food; then I went up to her.

“Aunty Peony . . .” I gently called out.

Though she looked up at me, she didn’t seem to recognize me. With sunken cheeks, cloudy, bloodshot eyes, and dirty clothes, her beauty was gone. But not her arrogance.

“Who’s that?” she asked, her tone harsh and suspicious.

“It’s Spring Swallow.”

“Who’s Sprint Wallow?”

Did she fail to recognize me, or just pretend?

She kept staring at me until I suddenly realized she was partly blind.

“Can you see?” I asked very gently.

“A little.”

“What happened to your eyes?”

She chuckled. “Ha, you don’t know?”

“I don’t, what happened?”

“I’ll tell you if you take me for a good meal.”

It was a strange request, but to be sure she was Aunty Peony, I agreed.

“All right, let’s find a place.”

She stood up, put her arm around mine, and we began to walk.

Soon I spotted a simple restaurant, led her to a table, and we both sat down. The place was wet and dirty with cigarette butts, and broken beer bottles littered the floor.