Three Souls (5 page)

No, he did not,
my
yang
soul says. He looks a little uncomfortable.
In unpredictable times, wealth and connections matter more. The Judge had both and his son was the price.

A price Sueyin has to pay.
Her voice is sweet but there is a bitter note to my
yin
soul’s words, like the fetid, sweet opium smoke that drifts past my nose.

Once she’s married, Sueyin’s days and years will belong to her husband’s family,
says my
hun
soul.
Her husband’s opium habit makes it that much worse.
Its bright silhouette glitters.

A woman’s life is never her own,
my
yin
soul says. She puffs out her pink cheeks to blow incense ash off the altar.
She depends first upon her parents and then upon the husband they choose for her.

I don’t need my souls to tell me that a young wife’s fate is set from the moment she crosses the threshold of her husband’s home. She addresses her in-laws as Jia Po and Gong Gong, Mother and Father. Her survival depends on a carefully serene, powdered face, her happiness on the way her in-laws treat her. Until she delivers an heir, her status is tenuous. If she proves infertile, concubines may displace her, family members will bully her. She will struggle to stay afloat in the fickle waters of the inner courtyard, buffeted by forces beyond her control. Her only salvation is to deliver sons. She waits for the older generation to die. Then and only then can she take her turn as matriarch, her every whim a command, her lightest remarks an affliction to her sons’ wives.

If you had bothered to remember this when it came to your own situation, your life would have been quite different.
My
hun
soul shimmers, a shining form without features. I can’t discern its expression. Its voice, however, sounds sad rather than accusatory.

2

T
he next day, I told Wang Nanmei everything at lunchtime. We sat in a corner of the dining hall, but our classmates’ laughter and talk were so loud we could barely hear each other, so we slipped outdoors to walk in the schoolyard, arm in arm. Nanmei squeezed my fingers, her mouth opening in excitement when I described meeting Yen Hanchin, his voice, his beautiful hands, his eyes, our conversation.

“Oh, Leiyin, I’m so envious! The actual translator! That’s almost as good as meeting Tolstoy!”

“I’m sure Tolstoy isn’t anywhere near as handsome.”

She eyed me and I blushed.

“Are you in love with him, Leiyin?”

“Well, at least a crush.” That was all I cared to admit for now. “But I have something else to tell you.”

Her plump, pretty face fell when she learned of my father’s decision.

“It’s a waste of your intelligence if you don’t use it to help our country,” she said. Nanmei never minced words. She was a merchant’s daughter. Her father owned several silk and cotton mills and she tended to categorize things simply, as either wasteful or worthwhile.

Both of us admired the beautiful, American-educated widow of the Father of our Nation, taking to heart Madame Sun Yat-sen’s words to seek higher education. It wasn’t hard to see myself standing by the blackboard, chalk in hand, or bent over a young pupil to correct her writing. I imagined a class full of earnest faces, taking in my every word, wanting to please me the way I always wanted to please my teachers.

“I need to convince Father I’m serious about university,” I said. “He seems to believe it’s just a passing whim.”

She grabbed my hand. “Let’s go to the library. I know what to do. You need to win a scholarship!”

On the long table by the door of the school library were boxes holding application forms, each box labelled with the name of a university. One form remained for scholarships to Hangchow Women’s University.

“There’s one left. It’s fate,” she said, snatching it up. “When you win this scholarship, your father won’t have to pay tuition or boarding fees. He’ll be so proud—Hangchow Women’s University is so prestigious. He’ll realize how serious you are, and how much others value your achievements.”

“Oh, Nanmei, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do for days and you’ve just solved my problem! Do you really think I can win a scholarship?”

“Of course. Hangchow Women’s wants the best and brightest young women, and if you’re not that, I don’t know who is.”

Then she leaned over to whisper mischievously in my ear. “And just think how much it will impress Yen Hanchin.”

I hadn’t even thought of how a scholarship could elevate me in Hanchin’s esteem. But Nanmei was right. How could I expect Hanchin, with all his degrees from Chinese and Russian universities, to marry a mere high school graduate? An education was critical to my plans for a future with Hanchin.

Already, Nanmei was seated at a library table, scanning the form. How lucky I was to have her as my friend. She looked up and flashed a smile, her beautiful eyes bright and happy.

“We’ll go to university together,” she said. “We must. We’re the generation of women Madame Sun Yat-sen is counting on to bring China out of the feudal era.”

***

Sueyin went to Shanghai for two weeks. Her wedding was set for the middle of June, and this visit with Gaoyin would be her last taste of freedom, for once she married she would need permission from her husband and in-laws to travel away from home. Sueyin returned from her trip with a trunk load of clothes and gifts, seemingly in better spirits.

“How beautiful.” I held up a pair of gloves, thin kid leather in navy blue edged with tiny silver studs. “Have you worn these yet?”

“Yes. I went to a film premiere with Gaoyin and Shen. The gloves match this.” She pulled a navy blue handbag out of a box. “I met the director, Cheng Puhkao. He asked me to audition for his next film.”

“Oh, you should, Second Sister! You’re far more beautiful than any of those film actresses.”

“What do I know about acting?” She shook her head. “I’ve never even acted in a school play. Anyway, Judge Liu would never allow it. Don’t be foolish, Leiyin. I’m getting married.”

She lifted a pasteboard box out of her trunk and set it on her dressing table, then raised its lid to reveal an interior divided into two sections. One held a stack of writing paper, heavy and cream coloured; the other held matching envelopes. Silently she pulled out an envelope and opened it to reveal a lining of navy blue tissue paper. It was the finest stationery I had ever seen.

“Gaoyin ordered this especially. She has a box of the same stationery.”

***

I can tell this gift matters more to her than all the beautiful clothes Nanny Qiu is putting away in her trunk. I want to reach out and hug Sueyin, an impossible task for my incorporeal body.

Of the three of us, Second Sister was always the most compliant, the most sweet natured. She was as transparent as water and utterly without guile.
I study the scene in her bedroom: two sisters chatting, looking through one’s purchases. There is something different about Sueyin.

There is an edge to her voice now, so unfamiliar,
my
yin
soul says, twisting a pigtail around her finger. A wistful scent of jasmine tea fills my nostrils.

I study Sueyin’s features again and see a new hardness in the set of her lips, the lift of her chin. She is as beautiful as ever, but there is something smouldering beneath her features and a touch of something else, another expression.

Rebellion,
my
hun
soul says. It glows quietly beside me.
I think Sueyin harbours mutinous thoughts.

Nonsense,
says my
yang
soul. He strokes his goatee, a complacent look on his face.
Never Sueyin. She is the most obedient of daughters.
He registers approval, sweet lychee juice washing over my tongue.

***

After that first evening on the terrace with Hanchin, Tongyin began quoting Marx the way a downspout gurgles out rainwater. Normally he spent his days sleeping until noon, loitering around the house for a few hours before going out with friends. After the party, however, he spent more time at home, mostly in the library. Father had reservations about the Chinese Communist Party, but he had no objections to socialism residing on his bookshelves, saying we needed to understand before we were qualified to criticize. The low table beside Tongyin’s chair was piled high with books about Russia and socialist philosophy, and news magazines—including issues of
China Millennium.

Tongyin asked Father to add Hanchin to the guest list for the next salon. Then my brother actually made a trip to the kitchens to make sure shrimp toasts would be on the menu. If I had been wheedling for such favours, the entire family would have known about my infatuation. For once, I truly appreciated my otherwise useless brother.

***

I dressed carefully for the next salon, choosing a pale green summer frock with lace at the neckline. Nanny Qiu twisted my hair into a chignon, the style Gaoyin used to favour before she bobbed her hair. My mother’s jade bracelets hung on my wrist, tinkling sweetly whenever I raised my arm.

“I thought you were eating supper with Stepmother and Sueyin,” Tongyin said with a scowl when I came downstairs. Although his voice was casual, I could tell he was nervous. He was using even more cologne than usual.

“Tonight I’d like to sit in on the salon.”

“You’re very dressed up.” His eyes narrowed.

“This is my coolest frock. It’s very hot today. You already have sweat beads on your upper lip, Second Brother.” Helpfully, I offered him a handkerchief.

He snatched one from his own pocket and wiped his face. There was no sport in making Tongyin self-conscious about his appearance, it was too easy. But before he could snap at me, servants opened the front door wide to signal that guests were approaching, and Tongyin hurried to join Father and Changyin.

I retreated to the terrace and sat under the shade of the cassia tree. In the heat, its blossoms were dropping prematurely, covering the wicker furniture with limp golden petals. Shielded by the high back of the peacock chair, I peered through its woven wicker and watched the guests arrive in small groups: a dozen in all, mostly men, only three women. I caught no more than a glimpse of Hanchin before he entered the house, Tongyin glued to his side.

Once the guests were settled in the small drawing room, I slipped in and stood against the wall, so that Hanchin was in my line of sight while I pretended to watch the three poets seated at the front. While they read, I feasted my eyes on Hanchin. He’d had his hair cut since the night of the party. He wore linen trousers and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, as did most of the others in this hot weather. His bare arms were lightly tanned, lean and muscular. I wondered if his torso would be as brown as his arms. From time to time, he closed his eyes to listen and I could tell when he liked what he heard because he would tilt his head slightly and nod. Tongyin sat on his left, and a woman on his right. She leaned over constantly to whisper in his ear. She was thin, with a blotchy complexion, I was pleased to notice.

When the readings were over, a few guests clustered around Father, but most were out on the terrace, where the evening air was cooler and servants were bringing refreshments.

Hanchin and some of the others stood at the far end of the terrace. Tongyin was with them. My brother’s face was earnest and his eyes were trained on Hanchin. The rest of the group kept glancing over at the table, where servants were arranging platters. The three women sat on the wicker chairs beneath the cassia tree, conversing. I could tell the thin one wasn’t really paying attention to the others, her eyes kept straying to Hanchin. As did mine. I had to appear disinterested, pay no more attention to him than to any of the other guests.

But I found myself making my way across the terrace and stopping in front of the group surrounding Hanchin.

“Gentlemen. The food is ready, please don’t be so polite. Help yourselves.”

Although snacks were appropriate for this hour, Stepmother always served hearty fare in addition to the small morsels and sweet pastries. White steamed buns, both plain and stuffed with pork and vegetables; curried-chicken pastries; and slices of roast pork. And, on this evening, shrimp toasts.

Years ago I had remarked that some of these guests ate enough for a week. Stepmother had replied very gently, “For some, it’s the most food they see all week.”

There was a hesitant but eager shuffle to the buffet table. Even the women in the wicker chairs behind us abandoned their seats. Now I was almost alone with Hanchin. And Tongyin. I held my hand out to Hanchin.

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Yen. Can I bring you something from the buffet table?”

Jade bangles tinkled, traitors to my body’s shaking. He held my hand by the fingertips and bowed slightly. He didn’t kiss it in the French style, as I had hoped, but he held on for a moment longer than necessary, I thought.

“Thank you, Miss Song, but I find it difficult to eat when it’s so hot.”

“Oh. Perhaps a cold drink, then?”

“You’re interrupting, Little Sister. We were just talking about Japan’s influence on the socialist movement in China.” My brother’s tone implied I wasn’t equal to the conversation.

“Yes, Japanese writings on socialism made a lot of impact in China in those early days.” I smiled serenely and refused to budge. Tongyin’s eyes bulged at this.

“There’s an article from
China Millennium
on this very topic,” Hanchin said. “The mid-April issue, I believe. There’s a quote in there I wish I could show you, Tongyin.”

“Oh, we have that issue, it’s in the library. Let me get it.” And with that, Tongyin hurried off, leaving me to stand there, facing Hanchin.

“Are you secretly a socialist, Miss Song?” He said this lightly, in a teasing voice. He knew quite well, as did everyone in Changchow, that Father was staunchly for the Nationalists.