“Well, even if I don’t believe in any particular religion, I do believe every religion is a part of human history. We all want to know our own history, don’t we? There’s a lot of history there in that parish that should interest you. Just think, part of the reason you are even here in Beijing is to search for your roots, where you came from,” Jane egged her on.
Gerel could only nod to what Jane was saying. I gave up God before I gave up my virginity. Yet here I am, visiting Meigui’s God in the land of Buddha with Jane, an absolutely confirmed non-believer.
They were in luck. The mass going on inside the St. Joseph Parish was being conducted in English, a once-a-week event. Not many people were in the pews, most of them were Westerners with children. Gerel gathered they were diplomat or expat families. As the organ music stretched on Gerel consulted the pamphlet she’d picked up at the entrance.
The history of the parish was a tumultuous one and its existence was almost not meant to be.
The St. Joseph Parish had been established in the early eighteenth century by Jesuit missionaries. Over the next few decades, it had been damaged by earthquakes and burned down by fire. It was rebuilt by western missionaries during the Opium Wars, only to be burned down again in the early twentieth century by the Boxers, a Chinese nationalist group that was anti-West and anti-Christian. The parish as it currently stood had experienced damages and shutdowns after the communist government that took over the country had attempted to eliminate all forms of religion by seizing or destroying churches and places of worship until the 1980s.
Gerel peered at the fellow attendees, they seemed to be immersed in sentimental soul-purifying. Straight ahead, the priest was making the sign of the cross under the gaze of the Madonna and Child on the wall behind him. In the echoes of “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” Gerel envisioned the turmoil and unrest of the past. She thought of Jacques Bernard, a devout Catholic priest who’d answered God’s calling. What was it like for him in a far-flung place, a country that didn’t exactly welcome him as a soul-saver? Was he ever here in Beijing? Could he once have been standing on the same ground as she was now? What was his crime that had caused him to be killed? What exactly had happened between him and Sarnai? Was it great but forbidden love?
That evening, when Gerel had gotten back to her hotel room after returning from her visit to St. Joseph’s Parish, there was a voice message from Blackwell. It was his last night in Beijing and he’d like to have a drink with her, if possible. Gerel had been so occupied with touring the city with Jane she’d forgotten that Blackwell was still in town. It seemed she’d been living in a time long past. The shock of discovering her ever-expanding family tree still sent tremors through her entire being. Blackwell’s voicemail had pulled her back to the present. She still had her career to pursue and the jewelry couture ladder to climb. She convinced herself a drink with Blackwell would not hurt. After all, didn’t he encourage her to trace her lineage?
So, she agreed, and then everything had gone to shit.
I should never have had that drink with him that night. Am I so insecure to believe that my future really depends on the likes of William Blackwell?
She should’ve said goodbye to him once and for all. Then it seemed that she’d unintentionally just done that—William Blackwell was now dead.
A seagull’s shriek startled Gerel out of her deep thoughts. Down on the beach the lone bird arched its neck and flapped its wings then flew away out to sea. The sky, opaque with feeble sunlight only moments ago was now speckled with patches of gunmetal grey. The air was swollen with wintry mist. Gerel sucked in a lungful of air and blew it out of her mouth. She didn’t come here to stroll the beach or bathe in sunshine. She came here for solitude. Solitude had spurred creative inspirations in the past. Now, only in solitude was she able to think. Did she do the right thing, or had she acted irrationally? What’s next? How should she handle the sticky situation she’d gotten herself into?
From the balcony she went into the bedroom then padded down the terra-cotta stairs to the lower floor. In the kitchen, she poured a glass of her favorite Pouilly Fume, or white smoke as she preferred to call it. Back in the salon, she settled in the old sofa on the side of the wood-burning hearth. She gazed around. Everything seemed to have aged another century since the last time she’d been there. The blue les toile upholsteries were threadbare, faded into dull grey. Spider cracks and hairline splits cobwebbed the grubby terra-cotta floors. Even the fireplace was crumbling, the withered mortar barely held the stones of the mantel together. This place needs some long overdue renovation. She’d been saying that to herself for years but never had the means to do it. It required serious money.
She took a sip of the wine and debated if she should light a fire. On the other side of the hearth a package on the wooden dining table drew her gaze. She’d dropped the package there upon arrival earlier that day. It had been delivered to her studio in Paris just as she was getting ready to leave for Normandy. From the sender’s address she’d known right away it was the manuscript and its translation. Gerel hadn’t been able to bring them home with her. She’d rushed out of Beijing before the professor was able to finish the job. With the chain of events that had occurred since she’d left Beijing, she’d almost forgotten about it.
There’s no better time to read it than now.
She tore off the seal strip and let the contents slide out. In addition to Meigui’s original manuscript there was a bound document with a vermillion cover and a thumb drive. A folded piece of paper was attached to the cover with a paper clip. It was a hand-written, one sentence note:
“It’s been a privilege to work on a manuscript such as this.”
Chapter 14
Normandy, present day
Settling comfortably in the salon, Gerel picked up the translated manuscript, its glossy red cover shimmering against the dancing fire, its size and volume considerably less than the original manuscript. She turned the first page.
The Story of Sarnai
I was born in 1837, in a small town in northeast China, a region called Manchuria. My parents named me Sarnai, or rose, according to the language of the Mongols of the great Genghis Khan. My parents’ families were a mix of Mongols and Manchus. And Manchus, though an ethnic minority, had been the rulers of the Qing Dynasty of China long ago.
My father was a silkworm farmer. He sold many of his silkworm cocoons to merchants in southern China. Father often traveled to Canton, a port city near the Pearl River. Along its bank, many factories had been set up to conduct trade with foreign merchants.
When I was fifteen years old, father took me with him on a trip to Canton for the first time. Everything there was new and exciting to me. The streets were teeming with carriages and people—all kinds of people, Manchus, Han Chinese, and foreigners from many countries.
My favorite was the teahouses, there seemed to be hundreds of them. One day, father had to meet his business partners at one of the teahouses. He allowed me to tag along.
We arrived at what father told me was the most famous teahouse in Canton. It looked like a large pagoda sitting in the middle of an oversized pond surrounded by tropical flowers and plants. When we arrived at our table, a middle-aged man was already there waiting for us. Father told me to call him Mr. Yu.
As father read the menu and ordered an assortment of dim sums, I caught Mr. Yu’s gaze, sweeping over me from head to toe. He was a short and portly man with a fleshy red face. When his squinting eyes rested on my face, he smiled. I noticed his teeth, stained and crooked, one in the front was gold. Feeling uncomfortable, I looked away, pretending I was admiring the red silk lanterns dangling from the ceiling above us. Fortunately, father and Mr. Yu began to talk business and the dim sum cart rolled around shortly. I stuffed myself with those fragrant, steamy buns. Mr. Yu was quickly forgotten.
Shortly after we returned home in the North, father declared at the dinner table one evening, “Sarnai will be going to Canton to
get married.” The news jolted me like a lightning bolt. With a mouthful of food, I looked up at my father, my mother did the same. Even my younger brother stopped midway on his reach for a sweet fritter
“Now, now, don’t be so shocked,” father said, smiling, “You’re almost sixteen, and you know you’ll have to marry one day. This is good news, because you’re marrying into a very rich family.”
“Which family?” Mother asked meekly.
“You remember Mr. Yu?” Father looked around the table.
“Yes.” My voice was almost inaudible.
“Well, his oldest son will be eighteen years old next year. Mr. Yu thinks it’s time for him to start a family and to prepare to take over the family business. He and I talked it over and agreed that the marriage will benefit both families, especially us. Just think, Mr. Yu has connections to many merchants all over the world. We will never have to worry about not having enough buyers.”
“Have you met the son?” Mother asked emphatically.
Father shot her a glare. “You idiot woman, you think he’s not good enough for your daughter? The young man is likely to be in control of the vast fortune of the Yu family. We’re lucky Mr. Yu has agreed to the union of the two families.”
For a long moment silence hung over the dinner table. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I asked to be excused but father had not finished with me yet. “Just think, Sarnai, instead of eating cabbages and soybeans here, you’ll have delicacies like we had at the teahouse every day. You did like the food at the teahouse, didn’t you?”
I nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Good. Mr. Yu has two sons and no girls. He said he’d take care of you like you’re his own daughter. You’ll be wrapped in silk and satin and drenched in gold and silver. Just think, you’ll be the envy of Canton.” Father laughed and gulped down a shot of rice wine. Nobody said another thing about the marriage the rest of the evening. Submitting to her husband was my mother’s obligation as obeying my father was my duty.
Less than a year later, a few weeks shy of my seventeenth birthday, I was carried in a sedan chair into the Yu residence outside Canton. Father was right, I was drowning in luxury and extravagance, showered with gifts I’d never even dreamed of. Trunks of clothing made of nothing but the most lustrous satin and delicate silk, cases of rainbow-colored jewels and ornaments of dazzling gold and silver, all laid out, waiting to adorn me like a princess. Father never had to worry about my dowry, Mr. Yu took care of everything. But my parents never knew the price I had to pay for the life that was the envy of every woman.
The first time I was face to face with my husband was on our wedding night. The noise of drunk guests at the banquet had begun to thin. I’d been waiting in the bedroom, still in my red satin wedding gown, my face completely veiled by a red headscarf. My empty stomach had twisted into a giant nervous knot and Canton’s subtropical heat and humidity made it hard for me to breathe.
I heard the door screech open and shut, footsteps lurching toward the bed I was sitting on. Then my veil slid off. In front of me was my husband, Jun, leering at me with eyes dark as charcoal. Surprisingly, unlike his barrel-like father, he was rather tall and trim, dressed in a red robe and gold surcoat. Like most Han Chinese, he’d adopted the Manchu hair style, a long-braided queue.
Jun inched closer; I could smell the rice wine on his breath but he didn’t seem to be drunk. He grabbed me by the shoulders, his fingers slowly digging into my flesh like claws. I gasped. He sneered as if my pain had given him pleasure. He shoved me backward and ordered me to pull up my gown. Lying on my back, I closed my eyes and didn’t dare to move. I heard the rustle of his robe as he undressed himself. Then he was on top of me, pain exploding in between my thighs like a slash from a sharp knife. I cried out as the knife thrust deeper into me. They were the longest moments of my life.
Jun and I never slept in the same bed or the same room, not even on our wedding night. There was a small alcove to the main bedroom where I’d go to sleep. After our wedding, Jun was often away learning the family business during the day and staying out late at night entertaining Yu’s numerous business clients. No matter how late, I couldn’t go to bed until he got home so I could perform my wifely duties. I’d wash and massage Jun’s feet in a porcelain pan with warm water before he went to bed. Then there was the duty of making a baby. “I want a grandson as soon as possible,” Mr. Yu had said at our wedding. But Jun had a problem when it came to intercourse. It seemed his manhood often refused to go full-fledge unless I was gasping in pain.
During the first year of my marriage to Jun, ugly bruises permanently marked my body. When old ones began to fade, a new batch was tattooed on top of them, but they were covered by shimmering satin gowns and dazzling jewelry. Nobody knew they were there. “You useless barren bitch, you’ve brought me nothing but humiliation,” Jun had cursed.
Not being able to produce an heir for the Yu family had put the legitimacy of my marriage to Jun on shaky ground. At the family dinner table, stares of doubt and distain were more unbearable than if they’d slapped me in the face. There were times that Mr. Yu would go out of his way to be cruel, declaring in front of all family members that Jun should start looking for a suitable second wife. More often, I’d excuse myself to avoid humiliation. More and more I was alone in my chamber, cut off not only from the outside world but also what little human contact I’d had within the family compound. I’d wished Jun would discard me and send me back home.
My only relief was that Jun’s torturous attempts to make me pregnant became less frequent. There were times my body was free of the marks by Jun’s hands—for a few days.
Jun became more involved in the family business. There were times I wouldn’t see him for days at a time. But I was still Jun’s wife, caged in the palace of the Yu family and bound by chains of gold and silver.
Jun came home relatively early one evening. After I washed and massaged his feet, he told me it was time for me to learn new ways to please my husband to make up for my biological deficiency. He stripped himself down naked and went to lie down on the alcove bed. I froze, every nerve in my body already screaming in pain. But Jun beckoned me with a smile. “Come over here, I’m not going to hurt you.”
Gingerly I dragged my legs and approached the bed. From underneath the pillow his head was resting on, Jun pulled out a dog-eared book which he tossed to me and commanded me to leaf through. As I turned page after page, my face flushed and sweat trickled down the small of my back. The heat of embarrassment blanketed me like the subtropical heat of Canton. Pictures of naked bodies of men and women: some of them twisted together like ropes, others had their most private parts laid bare. Then there were the ones of women coupling in nude, they seemed to be wriggling and writhing in each other’s arms. “Well, this should warm up your frozen juices,” Jun sneered.
I didn’t know what he meant. Did he want me to do what the people were doing in the book? Which one?
“You idiot, don’t just stand there, come over here,” Jun ordered. “It’s time you learned the rules for the Yu’s family women: be grateful to the men who worked hard so you inferior women can have everything you want and need.” Jun snatched the book from my hand and flipped to the page he’d wanted me see.
It was a picture of a man lying on his back, a woman kneeling in between his splayed legs, her face smothered in his crotch area.
“Do this, give me a good tongue massage.”
That night, as I knelt in bed to pleasure my husband while Jun stared at the pictures in his precious pillow book, I realized I wasn’t alone. Did Jun just mention there were rules for the women of the Yu family? Did those rules apply to Jun’s mother? She was a woman of the Yu family.
Not quite forty years old, everyone in the Yu residence referred to Jun’s mother, Mr. Yu’s first wife, as “the old lady.” Shortly before I came into the Yu family, Mr. Yu had taken a much younger second wife, who’d taken occupancy of the chamber next to his first wife. But “the old lady” didn
’t seem to mind having another woman take her place. I guessed that it was because her duty to service her husband, like what I had to do for Jun, was now the new wife’s problem. Besides, the fact that she’d given the Yu family two sons had earned her the title of being the first-lady-in-charge when her husband was not around.
My chambermaid once told me that “the old lady” believed that Buddha had blessed her with two sons because she’d prayed to him every day since she’d stepped into the door of the Yu family home. She had a private praying room near the lotus pond in the back of the Yu compound. Strolling in the garden when it was not sweltering hot, I’d admired the praying room from a distance. It was a gazebo-like structure with a golden tiled roof, screened by red lattice panels. Nobody was allowed there except “the old lady.”
In the early morning of a cool late-autumn day, I went for a walk in the garden. I hoped that among the garden’s abundant beauty I could forget for a moment the life I’d been living, the debased and hollow existence I’d been condemned to, most likely for the rest of my time in this world.
The Face of the Seal Page 16