The Face of the Seal

by Jennifer Cumiskey

  But on that day the ponds and waterfalls, footbridges and rock sculptures, even the carefully cultivated gold and silver orchids, all but deepened my sadness. They were mimicked, manipulated, and manicured to look like nature in a place that was devoid of nature. Suddenly, it was like I’d been pushed into a rainbow-colored bubble, but the air inside was being sucked out along with my life. Slowly, the beautiful colors faded into darkness.

  I woke up to the sound of trickling water and the smell of incense. Wherever I was, it felt serene. I strained to sit up and scanned my surroundings. I’d been lying on a red Persian rug with my head resting on a golden cushion. The only things that were vaguely familiar were the red lattice screens on both sides of the entrance of the room, except this time I was looking out from within.

  I was in the old lady’s praying room.

  “You woke up.”

  I swiveled my head and squinted at the far end of the room. With her back to me the old lady was kneeling on a prayer cushion, wisps of smoke rising from the incense burning around a golden statue on the prayer table in front of her.

  “What happened to me?” I asked timidly.

  “You fainted in the garden. You must not have gotten used to the Canton heat yet. I was on my way here earlier and found you passed out right on the other side of the pond. So, I asked the maids to carry you in here to rest.” She rose from the prayer cushion and turned around.

  “Thank you.” I struggled to get on my knee so I could bow to “the old lady” to show gratitude and respect but a dizzy spell almost knocked me flat on the floor again.

  “No need to bow. Rest until you feel good enough to walk. One of my maids can accompany you back to your room later.” She motioned to a bench near the praying table.

  I could feel her eyes trailing me as I settled on the bench. “You can be at ease, there’s no need to be nervous around me,” the old lady said before she sat down on the other end of the bench. “I know it’s been almost two years since you came to the Yu family and we’ve never had a chance to talk to each other except at the family dinner table. How are you faring?”

  I raised my eyes to look at her. In a simple white cotton smock, with little makeup, her long dark hair loosely tied back, she was both graceful and sensual.

  My brain searched for something appropriate to say to “the old lady” but I came up blank.

  “You’re my first daughter-in-law, and a smart girl. You must understand that being a wife in the Yu family is not easy, though every woman out there thinks that we’ve got it made, being taken care of by our husbands. As time goes by, you’ll get used to your life here and things will get easier. Have you stopped trying to conceive? To give Jun a son and me a grandson?”

  “I—” I stuttered, not expecting such intimate questions from a woman I’d considered to be an old witch only a few moments ago.

  “Well, you’d better try to conceive. I know men sometimes have to be coaxed when they’re distracted by all sorts of temptations out there.”

  If only she’d known what I’d gone through trying to get pregnant.

  As if sensing my doubt, she leaned toward me, a smooth, manicured hand on my shoulder. “Well, that’s just my advice. I hope Guanyin will have mercy on you.” She turned to look at the statue on the prayer table.

  I followed her eyes to what I’d thought was the statue of Buddha. Back at home, we Manchus believed in our own gods, our ancestors. I’d never prayed to Buddha, and now Guanyin? My eyes examined the statue carefully—a female figure wearing some sort of crown, sitting in a lotus position with her arms outstretched.

  “That’s Guanyin, the bodhisattva, the goddess of compassion and mercy. She has blessed me with two sons and freed my mind from suffering. I hope she’d do the same for you,” the old lady said with reverence, like she was praying again.

  The meeting with my mother-in-law left me confused but made me think. From what she’d said to me, I gathered she had lived through the same misery I was going through in my so-called marriage to Jun. She’d had two sons and her status in the Yu family was secure, but how? Her husband just took another wife. Was she really free? She still needed her husband’s permission to breathe a little air outside this jail compound she was living in, she was still just a piece of the Yu family possessions. Could she really free her mind from suffering by praying to Guanyin? Or was it mere denial and resignation?

  But one thing I was sure of, if she was trying to coax me into accepting my life as she’d done, she completely failed. Waking up from fainting in the garden was like seeing clearly for the first time. A fire had been lit within me, so hot it could burn down the walls that imprisoned me. I yearned to be free, dreaming of being the girl I once was on the back of my favorite horse, Snow, galloping across the vast land of my Manchurian home.

  Soon, schemes previously unthinkable swirled in my mind. How can I escape?

  Little did I know the world outside my prison walls was swirling in turmoil, too. I wasn’t aware that China was at war with the British Empire, again.

  I vaguely remembered my father talking about the first Opium War when I was just a little girl. The British had long been selling opium to China. When the Emperor of the Qing Dynasty realized the drug was devastating his country and poisoning his people, he’d tried to ban further import. That started the first Opium War. British and Chinese vessels had fought many battles at sea near the port of Canton. Hundreds and thousands of soldiers had died. In the end, the British had won. Opium continued to pour into China and was consumed by millions of people, rich and poor, old and young, men and women.

  Jun and his father’s absences at the family compound became more frequent and longer in duration. It soon became rare for the entire family to gather at the dinner table. When they did, the conversation often turned to the war. Jun, soon to be the man in charge of the Yu business empire, was nervous about how it could impact his company’s profits. They often operated in large port cities where the British were demanding unlimited trading rights and complete legalization of opium. Mr. Yu, however, seemed to be more concerned with the ever-increasing number of foreign missionaries and priests showing up in Canton and other port cities, eager to do their God’s bidding. “Who do they think they are, these western witches and wizards, coming here to taint the enlightened thinking of Confucius and Buddha with their barbaric and superstitious religions. I hope the Emperor will never allow them to roam free. He should send them to the north to be slaves to the Muslims, just like the Qing Emperors before him did,” Mr. Yu harangued.

  But the Great Qing Dynasty, with its weak feudal thinking and antiquated weapons, was no rival to the ships and cannons of the West. This time many other countries, including France and Germany, jumped into war with the British, all demanding a piece of China. The foreign troops soon pushed north into the ports of Shanghai and Tianjin and invaded the capital of Beijing. They ransacked the Forbidden City and burned down the Summer Palace. The Emperor himself fled Beijing, hundreds of thousands of pieces of palace treasures were destroyed or robbed.

  Surprisingly, the chaos of war afforded me a bit of freedom. With Jun and his father often gone for long periods of time, the younger son was free to carouse in brothels masqueraded as teahouses or languish in opium dens. “The old lady,” unable to control her younger son, seemed to retreat deeper into her praying room. If I would ask, she would often agree to let me out of the family compound. “A little fresh air won’t hurt,” she’d say.

  And that little bit of fresh air led me to Jacques Bernard, a Catholic priest from France.

  The Yu family compound was in a quiet village that dated back to the Ming Dynasty, quite a distance away from the hustling and bustling port of Canton. It was early summer, a pleasant time to be out and around. Aimlessly I roamed amid trees of green plums, red persimmons, and golden oranges. Winding my way along the village’s many gurgling streams I envied the dragonflies dipping in the water and butterflies fluttering among patches of gold and silver orc
hids in the fields nearby. They had a short life, but they were free.

  I was thinking about the unthinkable again—I could just keep walking. Away from the vacant life I'd been living. The world was big and there had to be a place for me, a tiny place but fit for someone like me. But where could I go?

  My deep thinking was interrupted by noise from a crowd gathering a hundred meters ahead in front of a lone house on the edge of a large tier of rice patties. Months ago, I’d seen the house on my first outing around the village. I remembered it was dilapidated and deserted. But now the roof had been topped with new clay tiles, the crumbling stone facade had been restored and sealed with fresh mortar, the front door was shiny red. Somebody had given it a new coat of vermillion.

  A throng of people was standing at the entrance. Being shut off in the Yu compound, I had no idea how many people were living around me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been with this many people at once.

  “What’s going on?” I asked a woman, a small child clinging to her leg.

  “Oh, Papa Jacques is having a mass in there,” the woman said without turning her head. She was on her toes, craning her neck toward the door, trying to get a glance at what was going on inside.

  “What’s a mass? And who’s Papa Jacques?”

  My ignorance must’ve sounded grave to her. She flattened her toes and turned to face me. “Do you live around here? Papa Jacques is a man of God. This is his second mass here. Just listen, he’s talking about God, Jesus.”

  The house was full. People who had come late had to stand outside, but it was hard to see or hear what was going on. Curiosity got the best of me. I forgot I should head back soon so that I didn’t risk losing the privilege of a little fresh air.

  I stayed and waited, determined to get a glance of Papa Jacques—the witch and wizard, the barbarian from the West, as Mr. Yu had said.

  Half of an hour later people began to stream out of the house. I stood by and counted. When the last villager walked out, the number exceeded one hundred.

  Then I saw him, stepping out to wave goodbye to his dispersing congregation. I’d expected Papa Jacques to be an elderly man, but he was in his late thirties at most. He was dressed in a loose, white linen robe and black canvas shoes, all in traditional Chinese style. From a distance he could pass as another villager if it weren’t for his long chestnut brown hair, done in the Manchu way, braided in a queue.

  I was standing on the side of the house, partially hidden behind a cluster of shrubberies. I’d promised myself that I would stay just long enough to get a closer look at this man of God, then I’d head back home.

  For a long moment, he just stood at the doorstep, watching the villagers disappearing into the distance. As he turned to go back into the house, I instinctively hunkered down to avoid his sight. But the rustling of the bushes caught his attention.

  “Who’s there?” He made a few steps toward me but stopped a few feet away. Slowly, I straightened myself, face flushing with embarrassment.

  He seemed to be amused, head tilting to one side, examining me for a moment. He had olive skin and deep-set eyes, but they were brown, a shade lighter than mine. He didn’t look like the red-haired, green-eyed western devil Mr. Yu had described.

  “If you’re here for mass, I’m sorry you’ve missed it, but you can come next week.” He had a deep, soothing voice, and his Mandarin Chinese was quite good.

  “I—I’m sorry.” I was tongue-tied. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t come here for mass and had no intention to attend in the future. I was just curious to see what a western devil—or a man of God—looked like.

  “I bet you’re curious about me and what I’m doing here. Well, why don’t you come inside and take a look.” He beckoned for me to step out of my hiding place.

  I followed him toward the house, my feet ignoring the command of my brain.

  Inside, rows of long backless wooden benches were placed in the room, facing a prayer table that resembled the one I’d seen in the old lady’s private praying room, except hers was lacquered and far more expensive looking. Instead of incense burners, a silver candleholder sat on each end of the table, flanking a dark wooden cross.

  “May I ask what your name is?”

  “Sarnai, my name is Sarnai.” I turned to the priest who was now standing behind me.

  “That sounds pretty, does it have any special meaning?” He smiled at me, his eyes filled with warmth.

  “It’s a Mongol name, it means rose.” I felt more at ease, no man had smiled at me like that for a long time.

  “Oh, you’re not Han like most of the people here.”

  The ice was broken. He asked many questions about me, about my family back in the North, and what it was like growing up in Manchuria. I was relaxed and comfortably answered all his questions as if he had been a good friend I’d known for a long time. It was such a good feeling that somebody was interested in my life and what I had to say, that my likes and dislikes actually mattered. And he never mentioned the word God once.

  By the time I took my leave, it was high noon. Walking me to the door, he asked if I could read and write. Without thinking I said yes. Girls in Manchuria could not only learn to read and write, but could also go riding and hunting with men in their families. My mother told me that was because we were descendants of the great Genghis Khan who’d allowed women the freedom to do things that were taboo for Han Chinese women . . .

  Mongol or Han, your father abandoned you, for money. Gerel paused her reading. Sarnai’s fate made her think of her own maman. Father abandoned maman for money.

  The narrative voice of the manuscript was so strong and intimate, it was as if Sarnai was sitting right there, next to her, talking to her directly. If Sarnai had wished that her descendants would remember her life, that wish was fulfilled.

  A seagull’s cry pieced the quiet once more, its pitch and frequency told Gerel the beach’s solitude was disturbed. She went to the window and peered out. Down below, the bird was hopping zigzag in the sand. It shrieked one more time before flying away. From the right side of Gerel’s vision, a man sauntered into view, his head swiveling from the chalky cliffs out to the waves, seemingly savoring the moment of his absolute aloneness.

  He must be an overly enthusiastic tourist, wandering on the grey beach in the March cold.

  Gerel moved away from the window, eagerly going back to the world of Sarnai.

  “Okay, Sarnai, the descendant of Genghis Khan, I’m Jacques Bernard, the priest from France. You can call me Jacques,” he said, looking into my eyes with that amused expression I’d seen earlier. At the door, he produced a small booklet from the pocket of his robe. “If you’re curious about what I had to say at mass today, you can read this, it’s all in there.” He handed the booklet over to me.

  That evening, I made up an excuse of having a severe headache and retreated to my chamber early. I read part of the booklet Jacques gave me. It was titled The Religion of the Lord of Heaven. Though the concept of Jesus was completely new and hard for me to grasp at the time, I got the gist of the rules of the religion of the Lord of Heaven. They were not that different from the Mandate of Heaven, rules upon which my parents had raised me, virtues a good human being should abide by. But could there be such a thing? A good human being? Was my father good for condemning me to slavery for the benefit of his so-called family business? What about my husband Jun? His perverted and abusive behavior toward me, wasn’t that in direct contradiction with the state of family harmony propagated by the Mandate of Heaven? And what about Mr. Yu, my father-in-law, they said he’d spent a lot of time and a bundle of his money in those so-called teahouses with loose women. Those were all questions I had no answers to and so far, neither did The Religion of the Lord of Heaven. But something was happening inside me, something frightening was stirring.

  That night, I yearned for Jacques Bernard, not the Man of God, but Jacques the man, his long chestnut hair flowing freely in the wind, his hands reaching out, beckoning me
to his arms . . .

  The ecstasy of the previous night’s dreams dissipated with the rise of the sun. Guilt pricked me like a thorny blanket. My marriage to Jun was a lie, an act of perversion, but how I felt was pointless. I was still Jun’s wife. No Buddha or Jesus, no version of the Mandate of Heaven would approve or forgive my lust for another man.

  I had to forget Jacques. I swore I’d never see him again.

  For days I locked myself in my chamber and did something I had not done for a long time. I prayed to my ancestors. I asked them to give me strength, to chase away the evil that was taking root in my body and mind.

  Relief came temporarily when Jun and his father came home to stay for a while. I was a complete prisoner again but at least I was safe from myself. The urge to see Jacques gave way to caution and fear. What if they found out that Jacques and I had met alone, a married woman in the company of a foreigner, a wizard and witch. What would Mr. Yu do? I shuddered . . .