Three Souls (6 page)

“I’m not sure. Mostly I’d like women to do more for China. Get better educations, take more roles in government. I want to teach.”

“Well, socialism holds out more hope on those issues. Once you’ve graduated from university, will your father allow you to teach?”

I blushed and looked away. How could I tell him that even my plans for university might come to nothing? There were times when a teaching career seemed like a bright but uncertain dream, a blurred horizon of beautiful colours. If I managed to graduate, would my father even allow me to earn a living?

He must have sensed my embarrassment.

“An education is never wasted,” he said. His smile. Oh, his smile. “You may lose all that you acquire, but knowledge and wisdom remain yours forever. One of my favourite sayings. By the time you graduate perhaps your situation will be quite different.”

I couldn’t believe that all around the terrace, people were eating and drinking, engrossed in their own conversations. It seemed impossible that they weren’t looking at us, the tension radiating from my body in near-tangible waves. I could barely breathe from the effort of holding back my hand, from reaching out to touch his face.

Finally I blurted, “Tongyin will be a long time finding the mid-April issue. It’s in my bedroom.”

We both burst out laughing. And then, people did look.

***

My souls and I examine the scene.

Look at the expression on his face. That was when I truly began to believe he might be able to love me. His words were so kind. And as for the situation being very different, well, if we were married, it would be my husband’s opinion that mattered. Hanchin would let me work by his side, or teach.

You believed he would love you,
my
hun
soul remarks, its tone a little dry.
After all, you loved him, how could he not love you back?
It pinches me, but its shining fingers are playful, not spiteful.

Adoration glistens in the eyes of my memory-self. On Hanchin’s face, there is enjoyment. And something else. Is it tenderness or relief? I don’t recall seeing that look the first time. But on that day, I realize, Hanchin’s smile and, above all, the intensity of his gaze, conspired to convince me that he too was falling in love.

***

I thought about Hanchin even more, if that was possible. I imagined my student life, when he would come to visit me whenever he had a lecture to give in Hangchow. Effortlessly I slipped into daydreams about the conversations we would have about poetry, politics, and our future together. I was bursting with the need to tell someone about my feelings. Normally I would have confided in Sueyin but this time I didn’t trust her to take my side. She saw only Yen Hanchin, a poor poet, the infamous translator of
Anna Karenina,
an unsuitable alliance for a family such as ours.

There was only one person I had entrusted with my secret. With our convocation soon to come, I had a good excuse to spend hours with Nanmei at her home. We were responsible for two speeches at the ceremony: Nanmei was to thank our teachers on behalf of the graduating class, and I was writing the valedictory speech. We had decided my speech would urge our classmates to pursue careers in the service of our country. The work went slowly, however. I couldn’t concentrate.

“Stop thinking about Yen Hanchin!” Nanmei’s voice was impatient but she laughed when she poked me with the eraser end of a pencil. I blushed and pushed back the chair.

We were in her father’s library, which was much smaller than ours. Its shelves contained more popular novels and
wuxia,
martial arts tales, than Tang Dynasty classics. When we had come in, her father had been half asleep in an armchair, a newspaper draped across his lap. I had hesitated, but Nanmei woke him up with a rustle of the paper.

“Father, we have school work to do and you’re just taking a nap. You can do that in your own room.”

To my astonishment, Mr. Wang merely shook a finger at her, greeted me with a smile, and left with his newspaper. In a million years I couldn’t imagine taking such liberties with Father.

“I have an idea!” Nanmei’s pretty eyes were as lively as tadpoles. She put a fresh sheet of paper on the table in front of me and cleared away the rest of my scribbles. “Since you seem to spend most of your time imagining conversations with Yen Hanchin, pretend you’re writing him a letter explaining why it matters so much for women to seek higher education and careers.”

After that, the speech writing went much better.

***

“Where is Tongyin? Is he still in bed?” Father asked. We were having lunch and Stepmother had just placed slices of fish and tofu on Father’s plate. Then she rotated the circular inner table so that the dish rested in front of Changyin and his wife, Geeling, who had made a rare effort to walk over and dine with us.

“I was in the garden when Second Brother left the house this morning,” said my sister-in-law in her tiny voice. “It was eight o’clock.” And she ducked her head to stare into her rice bowl, as though waiting to be scolded for speaking.

Geeling had been betrothed to Changyin since childhood, but it was not until Changyin was older that he had declared he would never marry a woman with tiny feet. Her parents had to loosen her bindings after they had been set. Sometimes the letting-loose process resulted in painfully deformed bones. Geeling carried herself with a shyness that seemed equally painful. My sister-in-law barely spoke, and when she did, it was in a whispery, hesitant voice. She seemed comfortable only with her children and rarely left their house.

A servant was dispatched to speak to our gatekeeper and returned with the news that Tongyin had taken a rickshaw to the
China Millennium
office.

“I have no idea what would inspire him to get up early, but if he has gone to see Yen Hanchin, I have no objections.” Father helped himself to some pickled radish.

“Father, I’m a little worried,” Changyin said. “Tongyin is very impressionable. Yen Hanchin is from a good family, but he leans to the left since his return from Russia.”

“First Son, don’t be too concerned,” Father went on. “Yen Hanchin is probably just interested in the philosophy behind socialism and other political systems. He is an intellectual. When he gains more recognition for his fine poetry, he will forget about politics.”

I glowed at Father’s praise for Hanchin’s poetry. When the time came, I would appeal to Father’s soft spot for poets.

***

That evening, Tongyin arrived home shortly after supper, flushed and talkative. I was reading a translation of
Eugene Onegin,
one of the books Hanchin had recommended to me the night of the party. Father and Changyin were reading newspapers, and Stepmother and Sueyin sat on the sofa, gathered under a pool of light from the floor lamp behind them. They were embroidering bags of red silk to give to the most honoured wedding guests. Sueyin didn’t need my second-rate embroidery skills.

Tongyin waved off Stepmother’s attempts to order him a supper tray.

“No need, no need at all. I ate at
China Millennium
’s
offices. We had noodles sent up from a street vendor. Delicious.”

I couldn’t believe that my brother, who scorned all but the smartest cafés, would eat street food. But apparently Hanchin’s company had influenced him. I felt a twinge of envy. I imagined the camaraderie at
China Millennium
to be like that of the officers’ quarters in Vronsky’s regiment.

“Father, I’m going to be Yen Hanchin’s assistant.” He looked ridiculously happy. “A magazine is a busy place, and he says I can be useful just running his errands.”

Tongyin had never spoken of any ambitions. For him, university was no more than a place where he could meet his friends every day. By some miracle, Hanchin had inspired Tongyin to take on responsibility.

“Is he paying you to be his assistant?” I asked. My pang of resentment was now a full, aching jealousy.

“Not at all. No. I’m not staff, I’m just a volunteer. An apprentice of sorts.”

“Second Son, I am pleased that you want to help Yen Hanchin,” Father said. “I am less pleased, however, that you’re associating with a magazine that often prints editorials sympathizing with the left.”

Tongyin sat on a leather ottoman beside Father, his face earnest.

“It’s not a problem, Father. Not at all. Actually I’ll be managing Hanchin’s lecture schedule. He’s in demand and it’s quite a job keeping track of all his commitments. I’ll only be at the magazine’s offices because that’s where he works all day.”

Father relaxed. “Second Son, I approve. But your name must never be associated with that magazine.”

“Of course, Father, of course.” Tongyin’s voice then took on a wheedling tone as he turned to Changyin. “Tomorrow evening Hanchin is giving a talk at a school. About modern Russia. Why don’t you come, Eldest Brother? We’d still get home in time for a late supper.”

Changyin shook his head and returned to his newspaper. “I’m busy already.”

I spoke up. “I’d like to attend that lecture.” “We’ve been studying Russia and I could learn something useful. Father, may I go?”

“Third Daughter, you may attend if you are chaperoned by one of your brothers,” Father said, standing. “Good night.”

“Good night, Father,” we chorused as he left the room.

“Well, I’m going back to my house now,” said Changyin, folding his newspaper. “Since Tongyin is obviously going, consider yourself chaperoned, Third Sister.”

Tongyin glared at me, but Changyin had said his piece.

Sueyin looked up from her needlework. “Leiyin, you were coming with me to the Yuans’ garden party tomorrow night.”

I knew Sueyin wanted to spend as much time as possible with me before she moved to the Liu estate.

“Second Sister, please forgive me and give my apologies to the Yuans. I really would like to go to this lecture.”

She nodded without reproach and went upstairs, taking her sewing box with her. I noticed how much thinner she had grown, how heavily the box seemed to weigh her down.

Stepmother gave me a long look.

How cruel we can be to the ones we love. I plunged back into my book.

3

T
o add credibility to my story, I went to Hanchin’s lecture with a notebook and pen. As our rickshaw lurched along potholed streets, I received a stern speech from Tongyin.

“Don’t say anything, Third Sister, not a thing. If you embarrass me, I’ll never take you anywhere again.”

“You never take me anywhere anyway. What do I have to lose?”

“Third Sister Leiyin, I’m warning you.”

“You make it sound as though I
want
to embarrass myself. Stop worrying. Why don’t you tell me a bit about Hanchin’s lecture? Then I might not need to ask questions by the time we get there.”

“It’s fascinating, truly fascinating.” His face grew animated. “Hanchin says it all comes down to class struggle. Just like pre-revolutionary Russia, most of our population is rural. China is still an agrarian economy.”

Tongyin’s account of the parallels between pre-revolutionary Russia and contemporary China impressed me, mostly because of his passion. Hanchin had roused my indolent brother into taking an interest in something other than hair pomade.

The rickshaw took us into the Clocktower District, then through a maze of streets lined with shops, now closed. We stopped in front of a low, shabby building. Painted on the wall beside the door were the words
District Primary School 47.
We entered a corridor that led between empty classrooms. I thought at first we had come to the wrong school. At the end of the hallway light streamed from an open doorway where some plainly dressed men stood, talking and smoking.

“I thought you said this was a school lecture.” I was sure this wasn’t at all what Father had imagined. The building was so rundown. And where were the students?

“It’s being held at a school, isn’t it?” He sounded defensive.

When we looked inside, Hanchin was at the front of the room, busy chatting with a group of young men. I scanned the crowd and was glad I’d worn a plain
qipao.
In his linen suit, Tongyin looked like a foreigner among the drab greys and blues of a mostly student crowd. There were a few women there, all wearing
qipao
in conservative dark colours.

My brother waved to the men at the front. I recognized some of them and tried not to stare openly at Hanchin. Unlike some of the women in the audience, I noticed.

“We saved you a chair,” said one of Hanchin’s friends as we moved closer. “Right here, at the front. But, ah, you brought your sister with you. Miss Song.” And he bowed. “Please, take my seat.”

“I’m happy to stand by the wall.”

“Please, I insist.”

There was an exaggerated courtesy about him that didn’t sit well with me even though he had a handsome face, square jawed and masculine. His manner was slightly mocking. I now recalled his name. Cha Zhiming.

“No, Zhiming, that won’t do at all. Not at all. I’ll stand and my sister can have my chair.” Turning to me, Tongyin hissed, “Go sit. Now. And shut up.”

I sat down in the front row, opened my notebook, and uncapped my pen. Hanchin took his place at the front of the room, glanced around, and smiled. A warm, intimate smile that heated the blood in my veins, for I was certain the smile was for me. There were perhaps sixty people crammed into the room and within the first few minutes they were all silent, spellbound. I could have sat forever in that rundown classroom with its rows of battered wooden chairs.

My notes from that lecture were brief, a few scribbles:

Social change. Peasants and property.

Industrialization.
(Circled several times.)

Free education.
(Circled several times.)

***

He certainly has a quality about him
, my
yang
soul says, his grudging appreciation evident in the wash of a sweet fruit taste across my tongue. Red plum.
A fine speaker
.