by Aimee E. Liu
“Chinese are more accepting of death than you Westerners,” he continued. “Those who believe as my mother does, look forward to the afterlife.”
Hope remembered sitting with Paul through those long weeks of meningitis, her terror that he would not survive. She thought of all the risks he ran, his conviction that he was not “important enough” to die. But she merely said, “Mulan told me it was breast cancer.”
Paul looked up, blinking. Then he placed a slice of barbecued pork on Hope’s noodles and motioned for her to eat. “So Mulan spoke to you.”
“Mm.” Hope frowned. “She’s changed a great deal since she married, hasn’t she? Friendlier to me, maybe, but she doesn’t seem very happy.”
“Mulan has no happiness. She is filled either with rage or sorrow. She has always been so.”
Hope wondered how he could possibly know, since he had been absent her entire childhood, but this was not a defense she, of all people, could make on Mulan’s behalf. He would say no more about either Mulan’s problems or the matter of inheritance, and they retired to a vast lacquered bed heaped with red and gold pillows and overhung with tasseled lanterns. There was a heavy scent of anise in the air, and a soft rain pattered against the roof. As she lay back beside him Hope asked if this was the same chamber where his first wife had received him on their wedding night—a scene that had played so often in her mind that she was half eager, half dreading to see the actual setting.
He ran his fingers through her undressed hair, fanning it over her shoulder. “That court was closed after her death. This court I had prepared for you when I first returned from America. It has stood ready all these years.”
The rain quickened, tapping now at the oiled paper panes. Paul’s other arm was trapped beneath her waist, his hand curling at her hip with a familiar insistence.
“Why did you never tell me?” she whispered.
“Mei fatse.” There was just enough light for her to see his smile.
“No,” she said, yielding at last to the truth of this hated phrase. “I don’t suppose there was.”
In spite of her prediction, Paul’s mother took twelve weeks to die. For Hope they were the longest, most frustrating, and arguably the most interesting weeks of her life. Strong as she had always known Paul’s mother to be, she had never imagined powers of endurance and stubbornness such as Nai-li showed in her final days. There were daily visitations by three separate sets of black-gowned physicians who doctored her with herbal plasters and infusions, pills that looked like asphalt marbles, and elixirs that smelled of ether, ammonia, or rotten eggs. They inserted needles in her face, neck, and feet to ease her pain, applied hot cups, which left dark red wheals across her back and chest. They adjusted the incense, the position of her bed. They soaked her in cold water, then in heat for varying durations. Many of these ministrations required an audience, and only Jasmine, by reason of her age and uncontrollable outbursts of disgust and boredom, was allowed to be excused.
Not even Paul could explain why, without any other cessation of hostility, his mother insisted on Hope’s presence in the sickroom. Had she been commanded to stand watch alone or solely in Ling-yi’s company, Hope might have ventured a guess, but she and Ling-yi were not singled out and, in fact, had nothing more to do with each other than to stand and watch along with the rest as the old woman’s skin blackened and withered, grotesque tumors appeared at her neck, and the disease gnawed away at her brain. After the first week, Morris and Pearl, who could not understand why their sister’s abominable behavior always seemed to be rewarded, made long impassioned pleas for their own release.
“It’s the price we pay for Nainai’s leaving us alone all these years,” answered Hope.
“Leaving you alone, you mean,” sulked Pearl. “We’ve had to see her plenty.”
It was true. The children had been subjected to audiences every time Nainai came to Shanghai. She always favored Morris, but criticized his ignorance of the Confucian classics. She routinely insulted the girls. One of the things that had endeared Jin to Hope over the years was that he softened these visits by playing games or doing tricks for the children when Nainai wasn’t looking.
“Well, you won’t much longer,” said Hope. “For your father’s sake, we must do this.”
“Will we be rich after she dies, Mama?” Morris twisted his neck against the unfamiliar mandarin collar. He was wearing one of Paul’s own boyhood gowns of a deep black-brown shantung, and he looked elegant, much older than his eight years, and alarmingly well suited to this fashion, though he claimed to hate it.
“I don’t know about that,” Hope answered. “But Papa has promised me one thing. He says we’ll be able to build a house in Kuling.”
“Where we went that first summer?” asked Pearl.
“You remember? You called it Cloud Mountain.”
“We went swimming.”
“I’ve always thought if there is one place in China that I could call home, it is Kuling.”
From that day on, the prospect of a mountain home became their secret charm, making almost bearable the sight, smell, and sound of Nainai’s physical disintegration. It was less effective, however, against the treatment Hope now received from Jin and Mulan. Although she felt no specific hostility, it was clear that Paul’s two older children had been instructed to have nothing to do with her. After that first night, they did not speak to her except in the most cursory fashion. During their audiences in Nainai’s chamber, they stood beside Ling-yi, and although Jin remained friendly with the children, he would invite them to play in his own court or the old Children’s Court, rather than coming to Hope’s. When she mentioned this to Paul, he dismissed her concerns, reminding her that Nainai had raised the older two, and they were merely distressed at her passing. Paul’s own distress was eclipsed by the cables Sun Yat-sen was routing to him, about a new war erupting in Hunan, Japanese troop movements along the Eastern Railroad, and the arrival of Bolshevik agitators in Shanghai to launch a Chinese Communist Party. Evenings when his mother did not ask for him, he frequently went out to visit old friends, and fellow revolutionaries. Sometimes he persuaded Jin to accompany him.
Then the cancer spread. The old woman’s legs, arms, and bowels were affected. No amount of incense could erase the stench of decay in her room, and no amount of face paint could cover the agony tearing at her mouth and eyes. She twitched. She rolled her head. Each breath was a labor. Still she insisted on controlling her death watch, the elegant clothing, the binding of her feet, the daily inspection of those she considered her own.
It was now that Hope felt most like an intruder, now when she longed to escape as much for Paul’s mother’s sake as for her own. And she understood at last that this was precisely why she’d been summoned. She had not stolen Paul away, and she had even given a son to this family, some daughters, however worthless. But she herself had never—could never—be more than a trespasser. And by dying under the forced gaze of her violator, Nai-li was getting even.
June 19, 1920
Dear Sarah,
What hell we have come through, I cannot describe, but finally it is over. I will have one unbelievable article for Cadlow! I even managed photographs of the funeral, to Paul’s chagrin. I had to promise him I’d leave out all personal references to the family, though I’ve decided the most interesting thing about this whole affair is my own relationship to Paul’s mother, which I can finally permit myself to find interesting, now that she is gone. How she hated me! And yet I realize that none of it was personal. I think if she had been capable of recognizing me as a fellow woman instead of as a foreigner, we might even have established some mutual respect for each other—perhaps we did at the last, in a bizarre way. But as a foreigner, I was as much an enemy as the British with their gunboats and opium trade, or the missionaries with their stolen land, or the French with their opportunistic lies, or America, God help us, with her infinitely retractable promises of aid and assistance. Paul’s mother supported him going off to stu
dy abroad, she aided and fed his revolutionary friends—even saved a few of their lives—and she never, despite repeated threats, did disinherit him after he married me, but she was of the old school to the end, and she made sure every one of us knew it.
What I will write about is the funeral, and as you told me you’ve never been on the inside of one of these shows, I’ll rehearse the content of the article for you, beginning with the rites on the day she died—a day which she herself announced in the strongest, clearest voice I had heard since our arrival. It was three o’clock in the morning, and we had all been called from our beds. She ordered her coffin, built ten years ago and relacquered every year since, to be brought into the Court of Dignity. Then she informed us that the hour of her death was auspicious, and those who occupied the family home would continue to eat well (a bribe, I thought, to persuade Paul and Jin to hold the fort). Paul and Jin and Morris threw themselves into full-length kowtows, but she never said another word. When she was quite unconscious, a few minutes before dawn, we gathered out in the courtyard while Paul climbed up to the roof and raised his arm in a plea for the departing soul to stay a little longer. That was a strange moment for me, vastly more moving than anything I’ve ever experienced in a church, and also more cleansing. I heard genuine grief in Paul’s voice and felt such a welling of forgiveness and—you will not believe it, but gratitude that I was present for that particular instant at that particular place in the universe. The dawn was just breaking, all blue and purple and pink, with Paul in his long black robe against it, arms outstretched and head flung back. I could practically feel the spirit brush my skin as she took her leave. I suppose that was the one instant when I felt truly present and a part of all that Paul was experiencing here. The irony that Nai-li was responsible for this is not lost on me.
There were candles to be lit and the body to be washed. This, at least, the children were spared from. I was not. Paul gave me the option, said that his mother had failed to give directions on this one point—my participation. But had I not gone, Paul would have stood beside Ling-yi washing his mother’s cold form.
Water was brought from the temple, but it neither perfumed nor concealed the ravages of illness, which she had endured without a whimper. We were quick to dress her in layers of silk gauze and embroidery, an emerald and gold headdress, jade earrings, and the shoes she had embroidered herself specifically for the occasion. (The experience of cleansing and binding the dead woman’s feet should give me material for three articles. Would that I had snapped a picture of that, no one alive could deny the barbaric inhumanity of this practice. Alas, the introduction of a camera during this ritual would have seemed equally barbaric.)
We tucked her into her silk-lined coffin with everything necessary to provide her comfort during the journey to the Western Sky. Changes of clothes, books, a pipe and tobacco, money, of course, and spiritual passports. Then the coffin was sealed and at its head were placed a stone tablet in which her name had been carved, a bowl of sesame oil, incense, and a vase full of blue “virtue flowers.” I dressed the girls and myself in loose white dresses, and Paul and Jin and Morris put on the coarse sackcloth mourning gowns, the same sort of head fillets and straw sandals that we have all seen so often in Shanghai’s native funerals.
Some servants were dispatched with funeral invitations. Others moved about the house replacing red candles and lanterns with white. The kitchen staff went into high gear, turning out the banquet that Nai-li had ordered, and poor Jasmine sat in a corner and sucked her thumb—it has taken so much out of her to be so very NOT the center of attention! The next day a Taoist priest with one of those square turned-up hats and flowing black robes stood beating a gong at the entrance court as local merchants, officials and their wives, neighbors, former tenants and servants, even a few men who had been students with Paul came to pay their respects. Paul and Jin knelt beside the coffin as each guest bowed three times, Ling-yi and Mulan bowing in unison while the cacophony of stringed instruments and priestly chanting went on and on and on in the courtyard. It was drizzling, and the air was so warm and heavy that it muffled some of the noise, but the ceaseless throb of it got into your bones. The guests moved on to the banquet hall, where they were clearly astounded to find me and the children waiting to thank them. But as these exchanges follow a certain regulation code, we all muddled through without losing too much face.
Jasmine finally had a role, which she accepted with great excitement and much officious supervision from her big brother and sister. She took possession of the Heavenly Gifts, which the guests brought to accompany the soul on its journey. To Jasmine, of course, all these papier-mache articles were toys. There were dolls to serve as spiritual servants, horses to carry the soul, pots and cooking utensils and chopsticks, sets of chess and mah-jongg, books, money, baskets of peaches (for longevity!), elaborate necklaces, a pet canary, and finally, the piece de resistance from the mayor of Wuchang, a cardboard Model T Ford with uniformed chauffeur! As I watched Jasmine, in her own heaven, creating a private playhouse for these goods, I mentioned to Mulan that Nai-li couldn’t have assembled a more impressive array if she’d ordered them herself. Mulan gave me a peculiar look and informed me that, of course, Nainai had told all the guests what to bring.
The following day was beastly. Humidity and a relentless white sun searing through the mist. The funeral catafalque was the size of a stagecoach, draped with thick white satin. It required ten bearers, who made up only a fraction of the procession. Others carried Nai-li’s sedan chair and an easel with her portrait. Another contingent walked with brooms sweeping the path to heaven, and still more carried the Heavenly Gifts. Morris and Jin and Paul carried the spirit tablet ahead of the catafalque. The rest of us walked behind. There were more chanting priests, half Taoist, half Buddhist, more musicians blowing and twanging, the local watchman adding to the din with his wooden clappers. At one point, to my utter astonishment, this hodgepodge orchestra broke into a uniquely Chinese rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” apparently in honor of Paul’s status as a returned student! Every so often, silver paper cash was thrown to bribe any lurking devils. I am sure the throngs of gawkers along the route were thinking I was the real devil and poor Nai-li must therefore not stand a chance. However, judging by the calls and jeers, my presence attracted far more spectators than would otherwise have watched Nai-li’s crossing, and her spirit must have appreciated that.
It was about two miles to the gravesite. We formed a circle as the coffin was lowered, each of us throwing in earth. Then the priests made a bonfire of the Heavenly Gifts. Fortunately, that was the conclusion of the ceremony, for there was no consoling Jasmine. Paul and Jin had to bodily restrain her from plunging in after “her” horse and canary, and I’m afraid at this point the family did lose substantial face. We put her into a rickshaw and I brought her, sobbing, back to the house. Poor little thing, I knew exactly how she felt and I couldn’t be cross with her, but Paul was livid when he returned. He has so little patience for Jasmine. She’s a trying child, but still…
Well, you have enough family tribulations of your own without my burdening you. The news that I’m sure you’ve been waiting for came when Nai-li’s banker called (as she had instructed him to do) that evening. It was the equivalent to the reading of a will, though as I’m sure you know, only the most modern Chinese have actual wills. Ordinarily, all property belongs to the family and everyone shares equally, both profits and indebtedness. But given the peculiar nature of this family, Nai-li made special arrangements. I have already written you of her plans for Ling-yi (who is beginning to seem to me the true heroine of this family; certainly, though I am glad she will be off to her own separate life, I do not begrudge her reward). The only remaining mystery was the amount of liquid property. As it turned out, there is a round total of approximately one hundred thousand Mexican dollars, one third of which are to go to Jin and two thirds to Paul along with the houses, which are as good as useless financially, since Paul would never dream of
selling them. So there we are, not as well off as your Eugene, perhaps, but far more solvent than we have been. Paul is making arrangements now for us to stop in Kuling on the way back to Shanghai, so that we can look for some land and begin the delicious process of planning our new home.
The only lingering mystery is Mulan. She and Jin have been so remote through this whole process, and for a while I assumed they had reverted to their old hostility toward me, but now I think there may be something more at play. Mulan was visibly distressed when the banker had finished his news, and I think she really believed Nai-li might break the time-honored custom and include her—a female—in the inheritance. She said not one word to anyone, and it’s now twenty-four hours later and I haven’t seen her all day. Jin claims to know nothing. Paul went to her court more than an hour ago, so perhaps I will learn something when he returns. You, my girl, will have to wait for this story, though, for I can hardly keep my eyes open.
Trust you are getting some cool breezes while we steam in this forsaken pressure cooker. Thank God for mosquito netting is all I can say, and good night.
Love, Hope
Paul was already up and gone when Hope awoke the next morning. Jasmine had stolen into her bed in the night and was still asleep, with her bangs fanned up and her lips parted in a rare peaceful smile. Hope spread the sheet loosely over her, and climbed out from under the net. She had just finished bathing and dressing when she noticed a shadow falling across the translucent window. Mulan was pacing the outer gallery.
The girl’s face, for once, was free of its white mask, and she looked at Hope with uncharacteristic directness. “May I speak with you, please?”
Hope sighed. “For three months I’ve been wishing you’d say that. Of course.”