by Aimee E. Liu
A fierce mountain sunshine seemed to squirt the whole scene with gilt, and as couples awaited their turns at the altar they could bargain with jewelers, florists, and musicians, vendors of salted meats, sandwiches, even portable wedding cakes. Elderly townspeople offered signatures as witnesses for five bits apiece. “Just think what a savings, we’ll witness each other for free!” Hope whispered to Paul.
Sarah, overhearing, said, “Well, I don’t know about you, but I aim to charge. It’s no less than a dollar if ye want my John Hancock.” She thrust her arm under Donald’s and his face paled at the public contact.
“Paul.” Hope was drawing a circle with her toe in the dirt. “I’ve been thinking. It might be best—for the marriage certificate, you know—if we use an Anglicized name.”
“You give me American name. Paul.”
“I mean our last name. We could just drop the g, spell L-E-O-N. It’s nearly the same …”
“Leon.” Paul stroked his chin. “Leon is Spanish name.”
“People might take you for Spanish. It’s possible.”
Paul drew a mental image of the Spaniards he had encountered. Broad, bulky men who walked with their shoulders flung back, carrying their chests like trays. Winding black mustaches. Pirate skin and devil’s eyes.
“Never.”
“It’s not what I think, Paul. We have to be practical. In California, it’s better to be Spanish than Chinese.”
“Better Spanish than Chinese.” He stared at her.
“Oh, sweet. You know what I mean!”
He knew that in China names change easily. Babies are given “milk names” at birth to position them within a particular generation of their family—all the Liang cousins of his generation were named Po- something. Later, children acquire nicknames such as Stumpy or Bald or Muscles, reflecting personal idiosyncrasies or skills. Girls, when they marry, become their husband’s taitai—if Hope were Chinese she would be addressed as Liang Taitai. And students who pass their examinations are rewarded with “style names” to be used in scholarly pursuits. His own style name was Yu-fen. But not even women change their family name. Lineage is sacred, and the family name is the key to one’s lineage. Though many of Paul’s friends and associates had had their names butchered by immigration officers in coming to this country, none had voluntarily forsaken their ancestors’ names. Let alone masquerade as a Spaniard.
“No,” he said.
“Paul.” Hope lowered her voice, speaking sternly and deliberately. In spite of his annoyance, he was impressed by her persistence. “Your Chinese name will never change. Your friends will know you as Liang Po-yu, just as they do now. This will have no effect on the characters with which you sign your articles—” She hesitated. “Or your letters home. Only the bill collectors and the tax man will see this other name, and then they won’t try to cheat us because they won’t know we’re Chinese. If we want to buy property, perhaps under this name we’ll be able to.”
“Why they won’t cheat us?” He could not keep the smile from his voice as he repeated her phrase.
She straightened herself and looked him square in the eye. “Because they won’t know we are Chinese.”
He sighed and shook his head. She was speaking of business. American business. It was his first glimpse that the woman he loved was a master of disguise.
“All right,” he said. “American name for America only.”
“Understood.” She removed her left glove, inserted her fingers into the belt of her skirt and extracted the gold ring she’d instructed him to place on her finger after they exchanged vows. He wondered whether she still would have passed him this ring if he had refused to change his name and, if not, what they would have done then. But before this question could fester, the church doors swung open and a man the shape and color of a carrot leapt over the rough wooden step whooping and waving a swan-white cowboy hat. He turned back and lifted by the waist a young lady wearing what Paul first thought was a Chinese wedding robe, but it was only the scarlet color that confused him. She kicked her heels as the man held her like a wiggling child. Then she yanked his hat from his hand and flung it into the street. The man crowed like a drunken rooster as the woman leaned back and brayed, “Ne-ext!”
The wedding party entered a bare, dimly lit room to stand before a man who might have been Collis Chesterton’s father. The same stretched-thin head, bony limbs, colorless eyes gave Paul an involuntary chill. But the minister’s voice was as quiet and amiable as his name.
“I am Reverend Leander C. Hills.” He gave each of them an earnest smile, jotted down the names to appear on the marriage certificates, then clasped his Bible and began, “We are gathered in the sight of God …”
As Paul stole a look at Hope beside him, she turned from the minister’s sleepy voice and lifted her face to his.
“… if any among you,” said Reverend Hills, “has any preexisting matrimonial bond still in effect?”
Paul broke from Hope’s gaze and found Donald with his eyes trained firmly on the plain wooden cross above the altar. Sarah’s face was pinched and down-turned. Ong appeared on the verge of dozing off, and Kathe sighed.
“Law requires a response,” said Reverend Hills. “On account of this is Mormon country.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hope. “I—I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I need you to state if you’re already married.”
“Why, no!” she answered. “Of course not.”
“No,” said Sarah firmly.
“No,” Kathe repeated after the others.
“And you fellas?” said the preacher.
“No,” answered Paul.
Ong Ben Joe blinked. Paul suspected he still did not understand the question, which was just as well. “No.”
“Where?” asked Donald, the lawyer.
“I beg pardon, young man?”
“Where should I have these matrimonial bonds?”
The Reverend shifted his weight from one hip to the other. “You tell me, son.”
Sarah made a sucking sound, and Paul saw the dawning awareness draw Hope’s mouth into a perfect circle.
“I—” Donald’s voice pitched high and inward as Sarah ground her heel into his toe. So she did know, thought Paul. Donald had told her of his first wife still in Wuhan, and she would marry him anyway.
“You got somethin’ to tell me?” The ministers words pressed among them. Paul could not decide if the Reverend wanted to hear the truth or a made-up story, whether he cared at all or was merely obeying the law, but he could feel Hope beside him holding her breath.
“No.” Donald bent his head.
Reverend Hills said, “Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Kathe’s and Ong’s paltry English spared them any inkling of the drama that had just played out, but Hope stood rigid next to Paul, and he could only imagine the thoughts that must be running through her mind. He straightened his arm by his side and took the fabric of her skirt between his fingers, surreptitiously drew her toward him. She resisted at first, but as the minister droned on, Paul kept up, and she gradually relented. He imagined the tension breaking within her as she moved against him, and through the powers of his mind, he tried to reassure her.
“Do you—” Reverend Hills glanced at his notes. “Paul Po-yu Leon, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Paul took a deep breath as Hope stepped away from him. “I do.”
“Do you promise to love, honor, and protect her as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
The minister repeated the vows for Hope. She answered as Paul had, keeping her eyes locked on Reverend Hills.
“Do you have the ring?”
Paul fumbled in his pocket and brought out Hope’s mother’s gold band. She lifted her hand, which seemed impossibly pale and small. But he was surprised at the coolness of her skin when he touched her, the absence of the slightest tremor or hesitation. He placed the ring on her finger and moved it into
the position that would mark her for the rest of their days as his wife.
The preprinted certificates were each engraved with a drawing of palm fronds and trailing ribbons and the Holy Bible. Reverend Hills spread three such forms on his battered desk behind the altar, and they stood in a circle filling blank lines with names and the date. The Reverend affixed his signature last and blotted the ink with a hide-bound rolling pin, then collected five dollars apiece. Hope did not realize her mistake until the ink was dry.
This is to certify
That on the 29th day of May in the year of our Lord 1906
Paul Poyu Leon
and Miss Hope Jennie Newfield
were united by me in
Holy Matrimony
At Evanston
according to the ordinance of God and the laws of the State of
Wyoming
Leander C. Hills of the Presbyterian Church
Witnesses:
Sarah O’Malley Lim
Ong Ben Joe
Kathe Nilssen Ong
Paul Poyu Leon. The name leapt at her. This made-up name. If anyone challenged the validity of this marriage, what proof would they have that Paul—her true Paul—had even been present today? This was no idle worry, she knew, for immigration officials were sure to question their marriage if she and Paul ever tried to leave this country. They would never issue her a visa to accompany him to China unless she could prove he was her husband.
She felt him reading over her shoulder. “How do you do?” he said. “My name is Paul Poyu Leon.”
“I’m too clever by half,” she said.
But Paul had an idea. Outside, across the churchyard stood a large black cart with ornate gold lettering that read: LANDSCAPES, PORTRAITS, KEEPSAKES. At Paul’s approach the cameraman, a smooth-shaven young man who knew a good picture when he saw one, offered to make a portrait of the wedding party for free.
“It’s n-n-not every day I see a g-g-group like you f-f-folks.”
“Why free?” asked Donald suspiciously.
“Oh, hey.” The photographer threw up his arms in mock surrender. “I know what y-y-you’re thin-thinking, and you g-g-got nothin’ to worry about here. I respect the p-privacy of my subjects, but Ko-kodak’s got this contest. P-Prize is a trip to Shang-Shanghai.” He removed his hat, exposing a long, unruly mass of orange curls. He offered Donald his hand. “Name’s J-J-Jed Israel.”
The stammering young man—hardly more than a boy, really—was so good-natured and guileless that Donald soon backed down. They positioned themselves against the church’s clapboard wall and froze as he vanished beneath his black drapes. Then a gust of wind caught Hope’s hat, sent it tumbling into the weeds, and Sarah was inspired. “No, no, no!” she cried, darting after the fedora. “We all look like bloody corpses standing here! Let’s have some fun.”
Ignoring the cries of protest and her husband’s embarrassed grimace, she switched the men’s hats with their wives’. Hope took one look at Ong weighted down beneath Kathe’s fake tropical fruit and burst into laughter. “It’s brilliant,” she said, pushing the rim of Paul’s derby up out of her eyes. “Donald, you must agree, it’s a funny picture.”
Donald examined Sarah’s dyed green and red plumes as if they might be alive. “Ni yeh lai ma?” he asked Paul. You will do this?
Paul lifted his hands. Hope thought her fedora might have looked quite smart on him had it not been four sizes too small. “Hao pa,” he said, grinning.
“She’s right,” called the photographer, coming out from under his drapes, his stammer curiously vanished. “It’s a prize-winner, sure.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Sarah, taking Donald’s arm. “Now, deadpan, everyone. It’s only funny if we all look utterly sober.”
Hope thought this an odd comment, considering Sarah’s prenuptial cocktail, but she held her peace. Everything about Sarah and Donald was odd or worse, and she decided she was better off not knowing what had really brought them together. In fact, she would be perfectly content to escape with Paul now and never see the other two couples again. The wedding was over. Weren’t they finally entitled to some time alone?
But the men had other ideas. Donald, claiming his privilege as organizer, had already made it clear that he and Sarah were to have one room to themselves, though for loving or fighting was at the moment less clear. And even before they reached that stage, there was the wedding banquet.
Hope understood that this grandiose title could in no way match the event that awaited them, but the phrase seemed to spring automatically to Paul’s lips when he took her aside to explain. “In China we do not take bride to church, only kneel before ancestors. Give feast for friends and family. This way show respect.” He tipped his head toward the others, who were admiring the young photographer’s camera. “So Ong and Donald and I decide, yes, we make wedding banquet, American style. Surprise you.”
He seemed so pleased with himself that she didn’t have the heart to protest, but she found it impossible to force much enthusiasm. “Where?”
“Union Pacific Hotel.”
“How’d you arrange that!”
He winked. “Kuan hsi. Connections.”
These “connections” consisted of a liberal bribe to the Union Pacific’s Chinese night manager, one Mr. Fu. This elderly, bullet-faced man met them at the hotel’s rear entrance and hurried them into a small rear dining room draped in maroon velvet and lit by brass wall lanterns. The chairs were ornately carved and upholstered, the linens crisply starched, the silver heavy on the pure white cloth, but all this was bitter consolation. Hope longed to grab Paul’s hand and storm out into the lobby, commandeer a table in the main dining room, dine defiantly, uncompromisingly, but with enormous public grace, and then step up to the register and demand a private room for the night.
Paul’s leg moved against hers under the table. He was watching her with a bemused smile.
“Must we go through this?” she whispered.
“You are not hungry?”
“Far more tired than hungry.” She glanced around the table, at Donald and Sarah in their corner arguing, Kathe tucking into her butter and roll as if she had not eaten for months, Ong imperturbably filling his nostrils with snuff. Two Chinese waiters padded about on rope soles, assiduously avoiding all eye contact, especially with the ladies. She could not imagine how she had come to this place, and the only thing that kept her from tears was the unwavering touch of Paul’s knee.
“I thought—” he started.
“Never mind.” She lay her hand over his, lightly but confidently reassuring that she would not shame him, and pulled away before the gesture could be noticed by anyone else. Paul’s hand remained where she left it, cupped around the base of his glass, but beneath the table, she felt him press harder in apology and promise. He maintained that pressure for the duration of the meal, and this single, continuous sensation became the thread on which all memory of the evening would be strung. The food, the drink, the hotel’s smells of must and aged wood, the moving faces and hands of their companions all blurred.
“If this were China,” Sarah announced, “we brides wouldn’t be allowed to attend this banquet. Isn’t that so, Donald?”
Donald repositioned the bowl of tomato soup that had just been placed in front of him.
“No, in China,” she continued, looking to the rest of them, “the wedding is not about the marriage at all, is it? No. Acquisition, that’s the real reason for celebration, isn’t it? That’s why the brides are not invited. Because we are the acquisitions. Like precious vases or antique scrolls. One more for the trove, isn’t it? Parade us through the streets with all the clang and bang. Announce to the world that you’ve won another prize, then lock her away with your other valuables for your own private consumption.” She swallowed a mouthful of wine. “What I don’t understand is what a man’s other wives do on his wedding night. Do they go into the wedding chamber and prepare the new girl? Do they spill the secrets of his fancies? Do they hide u
nder the bed and listen? Or do they just breathe a huge sigh of relief and enjoy their night off?”
Ong belched loudly and barked a string of syllables at Donald, waving his spoon and laughing. Donald’s face relaxed as he took his instruction, and lifted his glass to Ong. The two men toasted each other back and forth, rapidly emptying and refilling their glasses. Sarah waved for her untouched soup to be removed.
“Tell me, Ong Ben Joe,” said Sarah. “Do you know of any good wet nurses in Chinatown?”
Ong set down his glass and stared at her with his watery eyes.
“Well, we’re all going to need them soon enough.” She raised her glass to Hope. “Chinese ladies never nurse their own babies, you know. It spoils their figures for their husbands.”
Hope studied the next arriving course. Turkey with relish, boiled potatoes, beets. Familiar as Mother Wayland’s kitchen. She couldn’t begin to name the foods on which Paul had been raised.
“Just how do you know so much about Chinese culture, Sarah?” she asked.
“Donald,” answered Sarah. When Hope’s face betrayed her surprise at this, she insisted, “My darlin’ husband has taught me everything I know about his beloved homeland, you can be sure of that.”
Maybe so, but Hope doubted that Donald had provided these lessons so his wife could skewer him with them on their wedding night. Nevertheless, neither Donald nor anyone else seemed willing to stop Sarah as she deliberately drank down one glass of wine after another while pronouncing the specially ordered food inedible and demanding why her husband had not had the chef make chow mein. Kathe ate on, and the men took refuge in a drinking game of finger throws. Paul managed not only to play but to consistently win at this game while still holding Hope in their secret embrace.
At last came the wedding cake, a small white circular confection dusted with candied violets, and a bottle of pai kan chiu—a special gift personally delivered by their host. Mr. Fu addressed his presentation to Donald.