by Mike Allen
She didn’t approve of Maudgalyayana’s choices, Ba said, his eyes on Ah-Ma’s scrupulously turned back, where she stood at the till sorting money. So because she was stingy and unforgiving, the gods condemned her to Hell, where she turned into a hungry ghost.
The sutra says her skin was like that of a golden pheasant when its feathers have been plucked, Ah-Ma seemed unable to resist adding, without turning around. Her bones like round stones, placed one beside the other. Her head was big as a ball, her neck thin as a thread, and because her throat was too narrow to eat or drink, her belly swelled out in front of her as though she was pregnant. So she went terribly hungry, but when her son tried to feed her, the rice and water he gave her caught fire inside her, and choked her throat with smoke…
That’s the story, anyways, ah bee, Ba put in, quickly. And that’s why we spend Hungry Ghost Month being nice not just to our ancestors—we’re nice to THEM all year ’round—but to HUNGRY ghosts, ghosts of people we maybe don’t even know, they’re the ones with no one left to take care of them, wandering between earth and heaven. So we pray for them and leave them food, put on shows for them, burn Hell Money to help them buy a happier life in the afterworld—
So they won’t stay up here, and make trouble, Ah-Ma said. So they won’t scare us, and feed off our fear.
So they’ll be at peace, Ba corrected. So they can—
Ah-Ma snapped the drawer back in, with a sharp rattle of change. Saying, as she did—
So they’ll leave us alone. Everything else is—
(A quick glance at the shop’s front display, here—two whole tiers of magical feng-shui items arranged to best advantage, under hot lights and gaily-painted banners. Male and female Fu dog pairs, Seven Stars Swords and Elliptical Coins, the Universal Cosmic Tortoise with a Buddhist mandala stencilled on its back, a whole dish full of Hum pendants strung on neon “silk” thread. Images of Kwan Kung standing at fierce attention, pointed towards the front door—once a mere human general, now simultaneous Taoist God of War and Wealth. At his side, more deities: La Zha, most potent of all the gods. Chung Kwei, the “ghost catcher,” festooned with bats, as symbols of abundant good luck and great continued happiness…)
—“window dressing,” Ah-Ma concluded, finally. Nothing more. Or less.
Whatever that was supposed to mean.
But maybe, Jin mused, as she paused to wait for the crosswalk to change—maybe what it meant was that ghosts (hungry or otherwise) didn’t have to look like that guy’s mom in the story, after all. Maybe it meant they could look like whatever they wanted to…like anything. Anyone.
Which meant, in turn, that half the “people” she saw every day could not be people at all, and she wouldn’t even know: That crazy dude on the other side, crab-walking along, arguing out loud with himself. That little girl with the massive Hello Kitty plushie, trailing along behind a couple who might be her parents, but pointedly not holding either of their hands. Jin’s own wavery reflection in the Bank of Macau’s frosted window, rendered suddenly sketchy enough to seem eyeless, alien.
(Ah, no. I am FAR worse than that.)
(mei mei)
* * *
“Ma. What’s worse than a ghost?”
“What?” Ma looked up from her last few finishing touches on the Po family’s Hell House, blinking short-sightedly; as ever, she’d taken her glasses off for the close work. Claimed they made her eyes cross. “Did you get the paste Ah-Ma sent you out for?”
“Right here.” Jin sat down next to Ma. “What I meant was…if somebody said something was worse than being a ghost, what would they be talking about?”
Ma’s voice dropped, conspiratorially. “You know I don’t believe in ghosts, ah bee.”
“You better not say that where Ah-Ma can hear you.”
“I know. She thinks we’d lose half our customers.” Ma smiled, wearily. “It’s good to see you, Jin. Ah-Ma gives you long hours, doesn’t she?”
Jin shrugged. “I don’t mind. Want me to paint anything?”
“Hmm…no, I think everything’s done, actually. Just in time, too.”
“In time for what?”
Ah-Ma gave a disapproving sniff, from somewhere near the workshop door—how long had she been there, anyways? “Don’t you listen, Jin-ah? Po family getai is tonight—they need this Hell House for their daughter, dry and ready to burn.” She stepped in, wiping her hands on her skirt, eyes skipping over Ma like she was something hot. “Why are you so late back, huh?”
“I, uh, got held up.” Adding, reluctantly, as Ah-Ma’s raised eyebrows made it clear she wouldn’t take vague for an answer: “Talking…at the Empress’ Noodle. To Mrs. Yau.”
“You spoke to Yau Yan-er? Ai-yaaah! What did I tell you, girl?”
Jin flushed resentfully, thinking: Uh, get good grades…don’t talk to boys… gweilo may run the world right now, but that won’t last, and they don’t know everything, either. They’re all just long-nosed barbarians, at heart…
“Always be polite to older people if you can, because they’re closer to the ancestors?” she ventured, at last.
“Don’t be smart!” And then—wow, this really must be bad, because Ah-Ma actually turned to Ma directly, barking: “Eun-Joo, I need to talk with you. Come with me, please.”
“Oh, Ah-Ma, I don’t think—”
“Right now. Alone.”
Ah-Ma cast a single, significant glance back Jin’s way; Ma sighed and bowed her head. “Yes, all right,” she said. To Jin: “We’ll be back in a minute, ah bee. Don’t touch the Po house, all right? I think it might still be a little tacky.”
The door closed behind them, with a definitive click. But Jin could hear the thrum of their voices anyhow—Ah-Ma’s rising, thinning, dumping tense and conjunctions as annoyance sent her grammar sliding back towards Cantonese. While Ma’s stayed carefully quiet, deferential, respectful—not rising to the bait no matter how vigorously Ah-Ma might fish for a penultimate blow-up, the argument which would finally force Ba to choose sides (badly-selected farang wife vs. good Chinese mother, mother of his melon-faced halfbreed child vs. wife of his own dead, much-beloved father), forever.
And if, maybe, at the beginning, there had been some note other than anger in Ah-ma’s voice—something like fear, a shadow of genuine dread, at the name of Yau Yan-er—it was forgotten now, like Jin herself, in that endless, pointless hostility, that grudge-match negative feedback loop.
Jin shut her eyes, wishing it all away—them all, even Ba and Ma, in this one painful moment.
And heard Wu Mingshi speak up from behind her at the exact same moment, as though in answer to her pain—his light voice soothing-soft, liquid as a Cantopop ballad, welcome beyond all words—
“Are they both gone, flower?”
Jin’s heart shivered inside her at the mere smell of him, flopping like a fish. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Good. Then it can be just you and I.”
So she turned, and there he was: Right there, like always, wrapping her in his arms. Enfolding her completely. Mingshi, with his perfect almond-flesh skin, his liquorice eyes as smoothly shaped as pumpkin-seeds, his whole face symmetrically stunning: Shiny, shining, lambent and airbrushed, like any given Disney Studios’ multiracial hunk-of-the-month.
“I die so much when you’re not here with me,” he murmured, with perfect sincerity. “Me too,” she whispered back, thinking: It’s like a soap opera, isn’t it? So corny. So glorious. Oh God, it’s like a dream…
Could it really only be two weeks since she’d met him? When he’d told her he lived inside the Po family Hell House, she’d just laughed—until he’d shown her. Taken her. In through the same door she saw her Ma paint on, to a room whose nude grey cardboard walls were hung with bright red marriage-bed silk. And under those billowing curtains, on a genie-in-the-bottle nest made from folded Hell Bank-Notes and crumpled paper wads of Hell Cash, he’d laid her down and climbed on top of her, fitting himself to her like a velvet-lined glove. Gave her her ver
y first kiss, in super-slow step-print stop-motion—and now just looking at him made her delirious, hot-and-cold shaky, like malaria. Like love.
But: How could he possibly fit in there? Let alone make her fit in there?
(Didn’t matter.)
Of course not, no. But…how did he even know English? Or was that Cantonese—Mandarin?—they were both speaking?
(Didn’t matter.)
Yes, but how—
Didn’t matter, any of it: It was like Twilight, like Titanic, like High School Musical 1, 2 and 3. He was Edward, she was Bella; she was Claire Danes and he was Leonardo DiCaprio, before he grew that grody beard. It was Romeo + Juliet, but without the dying part. Fate.
Say it Jin-Li Song or Song Jin-Li, the facts stay the same either way: She was so ugly, so insignificant, belonging nowhere, to no one. But Mingshi, her Hell Friend, he chose her—
(This month, you should be careful of what you see…and of what you don’t.)
And: “Come with me,” he said, tugging her back towards the House; Jin came, of course. Willingly. Without question. Stammering, as she did—
“I brought you some food, Mingshi—stole it from the corner. Ghost-food…my Ah-Ma’d have a cow, if she knew…”
“Oh, I don’t care about that. Kiss me, Jin. I’m cold; just lie with me a bit, will you? Kiss me. Keep me warm.”
Into the Hell House again, wrapped tight in Mingshi’s arms—and vaguely, as if seeping down through slow fathoms, she thought she could hear her Ba calling from outside, her Ma, her Ah-Ma: Jin—where is that girl? Jin? Jin, we have to go…just load it up, the Po family won’t wait, the getai for their daughter is tonight…she’ll be fine, she has keys…
After which came a rocking, a heave and a lifting, a slam followed by rumbling, a pulling away. And throughout it, Mingshi just kept on holding her—close, closer, closest; tighter than she’d ever been held before, by anybody. So tight, she never wanted him to stop.
Yet Jin could still hear Mrs. Yau’s voice as well, buzzing always in one ear, dragonfly-insistent—the voice which never quite dimmed enough to become unintelligible, never quite went away. Mrs. Yau’s sussurant murmur, yin-tinged like every other Mandarin accent, even Mingshi’s own. Saying, over and over:
Remember, what’s hidden, what lies beneath…is not for you, little sister. Not for anyone. Unless…
* * *
Snatches glimpsed through the Hell House’s windows, fragments of sorrowful revelry: The Po family’s getai, already at its halfway point. Jin caught flashes of light and moving color, a community centre banquet hall full of neighbours, relatives, tourists all clustered around tables set with lazy Susans, stuffing themselves with Taoist Association food offerings the ghosts have supposedly already “fed” on. Earlier in the evening, there would have been an auction of auspicious items—more feng shui stuff, some donated by Ah-Ma, some by other Gods Material shopkeepers—with all the proceeds collected in one common public purse, to cover next Hungry Ghost Month’s expenses.
Ghosts like a party, Ah-Ma told Jin, this time last year. So we use that, to bribe them to stay out of our affairs—we get to eat and dance, they get to watch. Not such a good bargain, on their part. But—
(better than Hell)
The red silk hangings flapped, as Mingshi pulled her ever-further into his warm, strong, inescapable embrace: Apparently, it was opera time now, the classic aria from Bawang Bie Ji rising and falling in mournful ecstasy, as Yuji expressed her fatal loyalty to the King of the state of Chu…and yet this too was already dying away, time skipping a beat to admit a steady stream of ringing gongs, droning scripture, Mrs. Po’s weeping. Even clutched to Mingshi’s chest, his heart pounding quick in her ear, Jin could hear the Taoist master praying out loud as he waved a fistful of lit joss, his other hand simultaneously touching an open flame to the sheaves of Hell Money which fringed the Hell House’s roof and walls: May this house be a home for Po Ching-hsia, her life continue uninterrupted, may she live there happily, with her new friend, and never again be lonely…
(She took her own life, that girl, you know, Ah-Ma whispered in Jin’s brain. Ai-yaaah, the shame—such a pity, for one so young, so rich, so full of promise. Her poor family! She was only just your own age, Jin-ah…)
But: “Don’t listen, Jin-ah,” Mingshi said, at the same time—a sudden catch in his too-beautiful voice, like he’d been crying. “Don’t look, not at them. They don’t have anything you need. Look only at me, at me…”
The smoke filled her nose, her throat, her eyes, making her cough and weep. Had the Hell House always been so small? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t think.
Look away, mei mei, Mrs. Yau’s tiny buzzing voice said then, quiet, yet loud enough to drown out everything else. Look back outside, no matter how he begs you. See how things really are.
Jin listened; she couldn’t help it. She looked—
(only at ME, oh no)
—and saw the whole first row of chairs, seating strictly reserved for ghosts, occupied by the same people her eyes had scudded over all day, along with many more she’d never seen before: The little girl with her plushie, the crazy man—a woman her Ah-Ma’s age, in a flowered dress with yellow sweat-stains down both sides from armpit to waist, who scowled hatefully at Jin as she hugged a double load of tattered plastic shopping bags crammed with rags to her breasts, balancing them on her ample lap. A perfect anime-character teenager in private school uniform and Japanese loose socks, violet-streaked hair in two bouncy pigtails, who held up her spectral cellphone to snap a photo of the Hell House as it brightened, blackened, began to crisp and fold. All sat there staring, rapt and ravenous, waiting to see her burn.
They want me dead, like them, Jin thought, horrified. Then looked Mingshi straight in the eyes, equally appalled by what she’d finally caught looking back at her, and blurted, out loud—
“You want me dead, too. Don’t you?”
Mingshi shook his head. “No, never. I love you, flower.”
“But…you’re not even real. You’re…”
(His perfect teeth shifting askew in that kissable mouth, even as she watched; perfect hair already fire-touched, sending up sparks. His face, far too gorgeous to be true, a mere compilation of every Clearasil ad, every music video, every doll Jin’d ever owned, or coveted.)
“…made of paper.”
His face crumpled, literally. He knew she knew, and she knew it. Pleading with her shamelessly, in that dreadful, broken voice—
“Oh no, oh please…stay with me, Jin…come with me. I don’t know that girl, Po Ching-hsia. She’s nothing to me; we’re nothing to each other. Hell is such a dreadful place—I don’t want to go there alone, not after having met you. I’m afraid…”
Which was good to hear, Jin supposed, given everything he’d put her through, but not quite good enough. Not nearly.
So: “I’m sorry,” was all Jin could find to say, as she stood up—
—only to find herself abruptly full-size again, bigger than the Hell House itself, ripping back out of it in one not-so-smooth move: A shattered plaster cast, a husk, a shell—a burning birthday cake, and her some soot-covered stripper. The pain was immediate, all over, fifty torn Band-Aids at once; she could see half of her own hair already hanging chunk-charred, one arm of her shirt still smoldering, as she stumbled off the stage, cleared the front row (ghosts melting back from her on every side in a wave of angry regret, hissing like rainy night arson) and ran straight into her shell-shocked parents’ open arms.
Weirdly, Ah-Ma was the only one who thought to grab a pitcher from the nearest table, and soak her with it. Ma just hugged Jin tight, holding on for dear life, while Ba just stood there, mouth open.
“Wo cao!” he blurted, finally. Ah-Ma immediately rapped him hard on the side of the head, snapping—
“Waaah, on gau, filthy-mouth man! Look at the House, ruined, totally useless—the Po family will run us out of town.” She turned to Jin, voice full of a mixture of worry and anger. “And y
ou, what were you doing in there? Playing a silly trick in the middle of Ghost Month? Mahn chun yoh yeuk yee! You think we’re made of money? Who’s going to pay for all this?”
“I think we should probably go, while they’re still distracted,” said Ma. Adding, pointedly, to Ah-Ma: “Unless you want it to be you.”
Ah-Ma looked at Ba, who nodded; Ah-Ma snorted, and rolled her eyes.
“You are all against me,” she said, with great, despairing dignity. And suddenly hugged Jin as well, without any warning—so hard, so fiercely, Jin almost thought both their arms were going to break.
* * *
Afterward, once the entire strange tale had been told and—wonder of wonders—digested, Ma apologized to Jin for not telling her Mrs. Po had commissioned her to make Po Ching-hsia a Hell Friend to go with her Hell House, because she’d thought Jin would think it was creepy. “I thought it was creepy,” Ma admitted.
“I…don’t know how we could have possibly known…” Jin began to say, then trailed away. Everyone nodded; exactly.
“You said his name was Wu Mingshi?” Ba asked, a few minutes later. When Jin nodded: “Ai-yaaah, ah bee, that’s like calling somebody mister—Nobody No-Name, or something. John Doe.”
“Huh. Weird.”
But no weirder than anything else, really.
* * *
The next week, Ah-Ma announced she and Ba were selling the shop to the Po family, for a hefty price. Now Ah-Ma would be able to retire the way she’d always wanted—perhaps to Australia, where there were many other “good Chinese” —while Jin, Ba, and Ma could move to Vancouver, where Ma’s family ran a computer store.
That Friday, however, Jin found herself once more inside the Empress’ Noodle, sitting across from its owner as the lanterns shone overhead like dim red moons, casting barely enough light to see how little there was to see by.