Three Souls (22 page)

To judge from the newspapers, the outside world had gone insane. In Shanghai, the Nationalist secret police were arresting scores of people suspected of being Communist spies on the flimsiest of evidence. The Shanghai gangs, once merely common criminals, had found profitable new enterprises, sanctioned by a government desperate to stay in control. It only took a sliver of a rumour for a man to vanish, pushed into a waiting motorcar.

The journalists wrote about a government in constant internal turmoil. Battles between Nationalist and Communist armies carved China into regions where boundaries and loyalties shifted every week, and the Northern Expedition had finally taken Peking from the warlords. In our town, though, there was more talk of the lantern contest and the price of winter melons than news about the front lines. On the streets of Pinghu, the daily rhythms of life flowed on, complacent as the waters of the town’s canals, its good folk living each day as unsuspecting as tiny crustaceans in a tidal pool.

13

A
t eighteen, I became a mother.

Gong Gong named my daughter Weilan, a name that pleased me, for I hoped my daughter would be as strong as the generational name
Wei
signified and as beautiful as an orchid, the elegant flower he had chosen as her given name.

My father-in-law managed to hide his disappointment at having to wait for a grandson, but only just barely. Jia Po was content for the moment, for she regarded little Weilan as proof that I could carry a healthy baby to term. Baizhen was nearly incoherent with joy.

I hadn’t known it was possible to love so deeply.

The days that once ran through my fingers as predictably as prayer beads now flew by like abacus counters beneath a shopkeeper’s nimble fingers. The hours seemed too short, every change in Weilan too fleeting to enjoy properly, each moment a fresh enchantment. I spent every waking hour with my daughter, delighting in her tiny hands and feet, the way she turned her head, ever alert to the sounds and sights of her little world. I loved having her sleep in my bed, her small weight pressed against me, her quiet breathing, and the way she rubbed her eyes while asleep. I was glad she was “only” a girl; otherwise Jia Po would have taken over.

Our wet nurse was a distant relative of Old Ming by the name of Wu. She was delighted to have this coveted position, to be called Amah Wu, to sleep on a cot in the nursery, and, above all, to eat as much as she liked. She assured me that her own baby girl was well cared for, nursed by a younger sister.

“I eat better here than at home, earn cash, and I don’t have to work in the fields.” Her strong white teeth flashed in a happy smile and her big hands gripped a bowl of steamed rice topped with Old Kwan’s savoury pork stew. There was no chance her milk would be soured by discontent.

Baizhen was the only one in the household who was as besotted with Weilan as I was. I could say the most foolishly fond things about her to him, and he always agreed.

“Look how she loves to play with that writing brush,” I would say. “She’s a little scholar.” Or, “See how she toddles along, you can tell she’ll be graceful when she is grown, our little Sesame Seed.” Or, “Such a fine curve to her eyebrows, like my mother’s, have I ever shown you my mother’s picture, Husband?”

Baizhen marvelled at her along with me. We discussed our child’s many charms in private, for my in-laws and the servants didn’t approve of such conspicuous fondness lavished on a child. Baizhen and I were not superstitious but our servants scolded us for tempting evil spirits by making Weilan sound exceptional.

“
Wah, wah,
Young Mistress,” Amah Wu would say. “This baby is stupid, you can tell. Look at those dull eyes.” And she would raise her eyebrows and glance sideways in my direction to let me know she was saying this for the benefit of any evil spirits hovering about.

“She’ll be difficult to marry off,” Little Ming would add. “Look at that coarse and unruly hair and her clumsy movements. Who would want such a girl?”

Jia Po also disapproved of our doting words but for different reasons.

“You musn’t spoil the child with praise,” she admonished. “If she grows up vain and headstrong, it will take a large dowry to offset that sort of reputation.”

***

Baizhen and I talked far more easily now. I hadn’t realized before how much I had taken my family for granted, especially my sisters. Baizhen didn’t have any cousins in Pinghu, for Gong Gong was an only son. I couldn’t remember my childhood without hearing laughter, shrieks when we ran circles around the lake in the Old Garden, the affectionate scolding of aunts and nannies as we raced our way through the courtyards. The gentle tug of my sisters’ hands braiding my hair.

“I hope I get to see your home in Changchow one day. How lucky you were to grow up in a household with so many playmates,” my husband said to me one day.

“We could visit Changchow when Weilan is older,” I said, pulling another diaper out of the basket to fold. “I want her to meet her cousins. Gaoyin could bring her little Zhao Yang at the same time. And she should meet my sisters, they’ll adore her.”

Baizhen had distant cousins, but they were all at least a decade older than him. He had no school friends, for he hadn’t attended school. As for the company he kept at tea houses, these weren’t truly friends, more like fellow idlers he shared little with except time to waste. Baizhen’s closest ally during his childhood had been Old Kwan, who was a repository of stories and dished out rough affection like chunks of roasted yam.

“I hope we have another daughter someday,” Baizhen said, his voice decisive. “Of course I want a son next, but Weilan should have sisters to love, the way you do. And I promise to treat all our children equally, as your father did.”

“My father didn’t treat us all equally,” I said evenly. “He allowed his daughters many liberties but he still favoured his sons.”

“Your father is exceptionally liberal for the older generation, Wife. But you can’t expect him to jettison all the traditions that shaped him.” When he looked at me, his eyes were kind.

***

I don’t know about you,
my
yin
soul remarks,
but Baizhen seems deserving of more affection.
You’d have to travel far to find another man who’d ask for a second daughter.

A son next,
my
yang
soul says firmly,
and your duty is done. Two sons, even better.

I ignore them, still riveted by the sight of Weilan as a baby. The shock of joy I felt each time I saw Weilan never diminished, never failed to swell my heart until it felt too large inside my rib cage. That feeling had been more glorious than anything in the world. My Small Bird.

It was as though I finally understood love,
I tell my souls.
The world became a wondrous place. Wondrous, yet dangerous. Suddenly I was alive to all that could befall my child.

Think how your father must have felt,
my
hun
soul replies,
trying to protect five children.

Fathers don’t feel as deeply as mothers,
I snap.

***

When Weilan caught the measles, we didn’t trust Amah Wu to be sufficiently vigilant. Baizhen and I took turns during the night keeping watch over Weilan, making sure her little hands didn’t scratch the red scabs and leave pockmarks on her perfect skin. My husband responded to Weilan’s wailing and petulance with unswerving patience, even when I felt ready to bury my head beneath pillows to muffle the sound of her cries.

Gong Gong didn’t approve.

“It’s a woman’s responsibility,” he said to Baizhen. “Let your wife and the servants handle the girl.”

I could imagine my father saying the same thing. But Baizhen and I continued to share the nighttime vigil. We simply refrained from mentioning it to Gong Gong. After all, who would report on us? Certainly not Amah Wu, who was happy to let us take over so that she could sleep undisturbed.

One afternoon I entered the nursery and found Weilan asleep under a bright quilt, Baizhen beside her, sprawled at the edge of the bed. His blanket had fallen to the floor. I picked it up and tucked it around him, taking care to fold one end over his bare feet. Straightening up, I realized I was smiling fondly at both of them.

***

Since Weilan’s birth, my open letters to Gaoyin and the ones I received in return were filled with domestic life, newly interesting to me. Gong Gong did no more than scan through my mail these days. All he found in our letters were pages solidly dedicated to rhapsodizing over our children, sometimes composed specifically to dissuade him from intruding on my correspondence:

Last week Weilan caught a bad cold. My goodness, Eldest Sister, I didn’t believe one small child could produce so much snot. Fortunately it was only a head cold and didn’t go into her bowels. You’ll remember last year when she had diarrhea along with a cold, we practically had to hang her over the chamber pot for three days. This time, we managed to make her drink an infusion of hibiscus petals and ginger, sweetened with rock sugar. It was extremely effective.

Sueyin wrote less frequently than Gaoyin:

Motherhood has made you more accepting of your situation. If I had a baby, that would be true for me as well. But I don’t want to be accepting, so I’m taking measures to prevent pregnancy. The Judge is getting impatient. He wants Tienzhen to take a concubine, which would be a relief to me and no shame. Tienzhen refuses because he wants to be “modern,” which means only one wife at a time. The Judge has too much respect for Father and won’t consider a divorce. Not when a second wife or concubine would do the job. Thus they are at a standoff.

Gaoyin’s second child was another boy, Zhao Rong. My sister was as beautiful as ever in the photograph she sent. Her eyes shone with radiant serenity, a woman certain of her worth. She held the baby on her lap and little Zhao Yang stood at her side, a sturdy toddler in shirt and bow tie, legs planted wide apart. Shen stood behind the chair, a proprietary hand on her shoulder. My sister’s face was more rounded now, and the boldness of her eyebrows still gave her an imperious look, but her jaw was softer, less determined. She had sent a note too:

A baby brings back such happy memories of the days when you, and later Fei-Fei, were just tiny. I played with you as though you were dolls, it’s a wonder I never dropped you by accident. Tongyin came by yesterday with an issue of China Millennium and a box of chocolates. I asked whether he still goes to the China Millennium offices when he’s in Changchow. He just smirked and said, “Of course not. Father has forbidden it.” But you know how his eyelids blink rapidly when he lies. He bragged about having friends in high places and hinted that he was involved in political intrigues. Then he boasted that he mixes with both left and right, because his friendship with Cha Zhiming means the Nationalists can’t touch him. I don’t understand it all but I worry about our brother. And he ate all the chocolates he brought. But enough about our worrisome brother—I’ve already had a marriage enquiry for baby Zhao Rong!

Marriage. I wanted Weilan to get away from this dusty town, whose cultural highlights consisted of the annual watermelon contest and performances by itinerant folk opera singers. To my shame, I remembered scoffing at my aunts and older cousins for their seemingly inexhaustible interest in matchmaking. Their conversations around the
mah-jong
table used to make me yawn.

“I’m thinking about little San-San,” Second Aunt might say, bringing her daughter into the discussion. “The Chen family has a son the perfect age, five years older.”

“They’re related to the Qu clan, it’s true,” Fourth Cousin would have replied. “But they’re not that well off.”

Then Second Aunt would play her winning hand. “Well, my sister just told me that the Chens’ eldest son has been promoted to manage a branch of the Kincheng Bank. Not just any branch—the Shanghai Nanking Street branch.”

And the women would all exclaim over this nugget of news and rearrange the eminence of the Chen family in their hierarchy of suitable alliances.

Now I would have joined in such discussions willingly, storing away bits of intelligence about good families, examining the information, and drawing up a list of suitable candidates. Now I understood this planning for what it was: cold calculation born out of love, conducted with more urgent concern for a daughter than for a son.

If I matched Weilan to a kind husband and courteous in-laws, she would grow to care for them. She would be bound to them once she had a child, just the way I had come to accept my marriage. How could I regret the path that had led me to my beautiful daughter? I’d find Weilan a better match though, with someone educated, in a family where she could easily find contentment. Romantic love was fleeting compared to essentials such as a daughter’s security.

***

Ah!
my
yang
soul exclaims.
Do I hear echoes of your own father’s words? Do I sense forgiveness and understanding now that you have a child of your own?

I hadn’t forgiven Father. Not yet. But I was getting closer to it. I did understand him better. More than anything I wanted Weilan to be safe, under the protection of a family with wealth, connections, and a position in society.

Of course,
says my
yang
soul, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. A dash of capsicum crosses my tongue.
That’s all any parent could ask for.

What about happiness?
my
yin
soul asks quietly.
Didn’t you want Weilan to choose her own husband and her own destiny?

I would choose for her carefully. After all, Gaoyin is happy with Shen,
I point out.
If I hadn’t run away, Father would’ve been quite lenient with me, I’m sure. He would have allowed me some say in a choice of husband.