by Amy Kwei
As Purple Jade wobbled back to her writing table, Iris hurried to her side. Purple Jade leaned on Iris’s arm, saying: “I must admit, your Miss Spicy-Too-Hot is rather gracious for a West Ocean barbarian. She spoke Chinese to me very properly, though she had to think of the east and west before she said anything.”
The sight of her mother toddling with the help of a maid always made Golden Bell want to turn away, but she did not. She wanted to say Westerners were not cruel. They would never bind women’s feet. She sensed that would be going for her mother’s jugular. She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I’ve learned so much from her, M-ma,” she said. “Please invite her to Father’s birthday party.”
“I suppose there is no harm in that.” Her mother nodded. “It will please your father. I have used all my influence to keep you at home, away from that missionary school. Imagine, a daughter from this book-fragrant family going to school with orphans, children of peasants and common shopkeepers!”
The ink was running dry. Purple Jade dribbled a few more drops of water onto the inkstone. While her right hand rubbed the ink stick against the stone, her left hand held the wide cuff of her jacket away. Although women in the big cities were wearing silk stockings and cheongsams — the sleek, shapely, ankle-length sheaths with daring side slits — Purple Jade dressed her daughters and herself in the fashions of traditional, comfortable elegance.
Golden Bell saw an opportunity to bring up a new topic. “Oh, M-ma, have you prepared a present for Father yet? His birthday is only three months away!”
“Not really. I have some ideas.” Her mother picked up the brush again and mixed the thick, pasty ink. At last she began her guest list: the Huang family relatives, the Chous (her relatives), members and associates of the legislative council, the friends and classmates of her husband from his Shanghai student days at St. John’s University.
“Some will come from far away, from Beijing,” she said. “They will need housing in the family compound and elsewhere in town.’ She made a mark to remind herself to speak to her husband and the accountant about housing.
“M-ma.” Golden Bell edged close to her mother’s desk. “May I go into town to buy a fountain pen for Father? It is so much easier than writing with brush and inkstone.”
“Aiya, is that what your Miss Spicy-Too-Hot is teaching you?” Her mother laid down her brush. “The virtue of writing lies in the art and the thought. What does convenience have to do with it? Write a Chinese poem for your father. It will mean more to him than anything you can buy!”
“Oh, M-ma, you never want anyone to have any fun.” Golden Bell stamped her foot. “You don’t understand anything!” She fled. She was afraid more hurtful words would escape her lips.
In the back garden, clusters of whispering servants gathered around the master of the house. They consulted with the gardener and the accountant about the body from the river. What should they do about its interment? Was she an orphan from the missionary school? They must start the inquiry.
“The river brings another body,” an elderly servant hissed. “The old Huang household in town never sees such horrors.”
“People don’t kill when they’re not starving,” another whispered.
“Must be a suicide!”
Others shuffled their feet, dragging on their cigarettes. Ripples of smoke and murmuring voices rose amongst them.
Huang Righteous Virtue was five feet eight inches tall, though he looked much taller because of his erect bearing and lanky build. He stood at least half a head taller than the men around him. He wore an ankle-length silk gown in a straight cut, with side slits reaching above his knees. The blue gown had a soft, high mandarin collar set off by cream-colored cuffs and trousers. His hair was graying near the temples. It softened the effect of his dense dark brows and sharp flashing eyes.
It was rumored that when Righteous Virtue returned to his ancestral home after his graduation from St. John’s University in Shanghai, he refused to accept Chou Purple Jade — the bride his father had selected. To induce his compliance, his father had given him permission to establish a household of his own. This was a radical departure from tradition. Purple Jade’s father offered him land beside a causeway of West Lake, and Righteous Virtue began his marriage building their house of three courts; it adjoined the large Chou family garden.
When Orchid, Silver Bell and Peony emerged from the workroom, the master saw them. “What are you doing here, Silver Bell?”
“Morning peace, Father. We’re taking the silkworm eggs to the cold house.” Silver Bell held up the sheets.
“Go to it quickly!” Her father frowned and waved her on with a sweep of his wide sleeve. “Tell your mother not to worry; everything is under control.”
Silver Bell and Peony left. Orchid trailed behind them hoping to glean some information. She felt a sharp tug at her tunic. The chauffeur, Ah Lee, was beside her. He smiled and reached for her hand. “Follow me!”
Orchid blushed. She withdrew her hand and hugged her sides. She decided to follow Ah Lee at a respectable distance.
The chauffeur had learned to drive from his European master in Shanghai. He stood almost six feet tall. While the other male servants wore dark, Chinese-style cotton jackets and baggy pants, Ah Lee donned a Western chauffeur’s uniform of crisp black wool. With a cigarette on his lips, he was the cynosure of the servants’ quarters.
Orchid remained beyond his reach. Ah Lee had found out that Orchid had come from a family of itinerant beggars. When she was only five years old, Purple Jade happened to see her gnawing on a tree trunk and bought her. When Purple Jade married, Orchid came into the Huang household as part of her dowry. The mistress of the house had taught her embroidery, reading, writing and all the fine manners of a lady. Ah Lee admired her unassuming grace. He found her slim figure, her unusually large round eyes, and glowing cheeks most alluring.
Ah Lee led Orchid out the back door toward the bamboo groves. No breeze stirred the leaves. The eerie stillness heightened Orchid’s anxiety. News of the dead girl must have driven away all the pleasure boats in the area. The river flowed like a graphite sheet. The morning mist over the water had thickened. It blurred all perspective of depth.
Orchid felt her chest tighten and her breath grow short when they approached. The body lay in a tangle of fishing nets that the servants had used to bring her ashore.
No one had thought to close the drowned girl’s eyes. Orchid stifled a scream. She ran to the other side of the bamboo grove, hid her face and cried. Before she knew it, Ah Lee had wrapped his arms around her and turned her toward him. He held her with one arm, murmuring words of comfort and whispering endearments. His other hand slipped under her tunic and sought her breasts. Orchid wore a tight undervest, buttoned in front. The chauffeur fumbled with the buttons but they would not yield. He heaved with frustration and gave up on the vest.
Ah Lee’s hand felt big and warm against Orchid’s spine. His caresses spread strange sensations into all the secret places she had long ignored. The excitement was so intense she could hardly breathe. This was the first time she had been held by a man. Her heart raced, thumping against her ribs. She felt a strange tickling in her inner chest wall. A giddy warmth arose from her womb, flooding her breasts; it reached her face, and flushed her cheeks.
Her trembling further excited Ah Lee. He squeezed her breasts and leaned deep into her face. He kissed her eyes; his tongue worked all over her cheeks, playing in her mouth. He pushed his hips into her body. Squeezing Orchid ever closer, he circled one leg around her slim figure. He started to pull the drawstrings on Orchid’s trousers and cursed when he couldn’t untangle the knot with one hand.
Orchid smelled his hot breath. Being so much shorter, she was tucked under Ah Lee’s sweaty armpit. His wool clothes reeked of perspiration and cigarette smoke. Something deep inside her balked. She awakened as if from a trance, and her whole body stiffened. She could not move her arms or legs. In her mind’s eye she saw the dark slimy eyes of the dea
d girl. The roving tongue in her mouth filled her with nausea. Her stomach churned; vomit surged up her throat and gushed over both of them. She jerked away.
Ah Lee blanched. He spat, cursed and pushed her away. “You country bumpkin! A swine! No one in Shanghai would be so disgusting!”
Orchid felt faint and ashamed. She wailed and sat trembling on the ground.
They heard people coming. Ah Lee cursed more loudly. He ran and wiped his clothes with bamboo leaves. He fled to the servants’ quarters through another back door.
Orchid’s face felt hot. She squeezed herself into the thick of the bamboo grove. Hidden among the tall canes, she watched as several men untangled the corpse from the fishing net.
A susurrus of dismay rustled through the group.
“The chauffeur said the West Ocean Devils do not condone suicide,” pronounced a gruff voice.
“Strange that this girl is wearing the missionary school uniform.”
“The East Ocean Devils getting near?”
“The Japanese already bombed Shanghai. We drove them away!”
“They rape and kill women who don’t give in!”
“They’re not in Shanghai; they’re still far north — in Manchuria, I think.”
They closed the dead girl’s eyes, and covered her with an old cloth. Placing her on a stretcher, they carried her toward the servants’ door.
Alone once more, Orchid brushed off her soiled tunic. She had learned her propriety from being the hands and feet of Purple Jade. The chauffeur made her feel trampled and unclean. She wished she could tell her mistress about Ah Lee, but she knew she must not. After all, she was only a servant. Why had she allowed herself to be led out the back door? The chauffeur could deny everything, or worse, accuse her of seducing him. Surely tongues would wag then.
Orchid stole back to her room to wash and change. The main courts of the house were deserted. The housemaids who usually dusted the rosewood furniture and swept the courtyards in the morning were absent. Everyone had retreated to the kitchen and the servants’ quarters to gossip about the corpse. Orchid resolved never to look at the chauffeur again.
GOLDEN BELL’S SHOUT “You don’t understand anything!” rang in Purple Jade’s ears. When did her daughter learn to shout at her mother? Did Miss Tyler encourage her daughter to “have fun” and be audacious? When had she become so defiant? She rubbed her temple and pushed all thoughts of recrimination away. It was time to meet this Miss Spicy-Too-Hot and learn some of the foreign magic. Yes, she would invite Miss Tyler to the birthday party.
Purple Jade refreshed her ink. More than one hundred guests would be arriving. She must compile a list of groceries to start the preparations:
10 catties of red beans
20 catties of sweet rice
7 dozens of duck’s eggs
10 catties of salt
1 slaughtered pig for smoking.
“That will keep the kitchen busy for a few days,” she said to herself. Her voice came out low, with unexpected cracks in it. Her throat and skin often felt dry. Did that point to the end of her menstrual years? That would be a merciful relief, she thought.
“Orchid.” No reply. She cleared her throat. She remembered the silkworm eggs. She sighed and leaned back to raise one foot and then the other onto the opposite knee, rubbing them. “Orchid gives me arms and legs. I’m useless without her. Curse my feet,” she mumbled. She did not insist on bound feet for her children. Yet, despite her example of virtuous living, Golden Bell had become rude and brazen.
Purple Jade thought of a Po Chu-i poem she had read the night before:
Fluttering birds welcome the green foliage;
Shimmering fish play in the new weeds.
But summer did not warm my heart;
I am a flaccid straw . . .
“I could write a poem for my lord’s birthday,” she said to herself. She knew the gift her husband really needed was an heir. But she was almost forty. The only verse that came to mind brought tears into her eyes.
The spring greens turn dark.
Where is the summer lark?
The ink felt dry, and in any case, she was not in the mood for writing. She washed her brush, covered her inkstone. Yes, her daughter was right. It would be easier to write with a fountain pen. Still, within the settled comforts of her household, she felt challenged by her daughter’s fascination with this intrusive foreign world. She took out her book of poems.
While Purple Jade fingered the pages, her mind wandered. Golden Bell had once shown her a color photograph from one of Miss Tyler’s magazines. It was the scene of a snow-capped, bell-shaped mountain reflected in a shimmering aqua-blue lake. The limpid water rendered the stones and branches on the bottom visible, and the image of the mountain floated on the surface ripples. The light blue sky with streaks of pinkish orange clouds added magic to the placid scene. She felt the urge to morph into a bird and fly onto the stately pine tree that stood on one side of the craggy red mountain. An unfamiliar anxiety flooded her mind. She had always thought of the wilderness as something unruly and forbidding — somehow it related to her free-floating fear of war. This picture of serene beauty, however, had set her heart fluttering with a strange vitality. She had been inordinately proud of West Lake in her backyard, but the water was dark and pleasure boats frequented the lake. Now something inside her was stirring. A poem by her favorite poet, Tu Fu, about random pleasure crossed her mind:
Young mulberry leaves come forth for the picking.
Waves of slender wheat flow along the river.
Spring turns into summer, how long will life last?
Honey-sweet wine is fragrant. Do not let it pass.
While growing up, Purple Jade’s bound feet had been her shackles. Yet, even with these physical limitations, she had found vicarious pleasures in the rambunctious life of her half-brother, Chou Glorious Dragon. She watched him run, climb, and play shuttlecock, but as a girl it was her special privilege to fine-tune the simple acts of daily living.
She had acquired her seemingly casual grace with careful discipline. Like the refined ladies of old, she had learned to discern whether the water in a cup of tea came from mountain snow or from spring water. The clarity of pale green tea symbolized purity; its aroma inspired lofty thoughts; the subtle taste, the gentle fragrance, instilled delicate sensibility. Despite her physical confinement, she had learned to be content.
Then she remembered her betrothal to Huang Righteous Virtue, the scion of a large landowning family and an ardent follower of Dr. Sun Yat-sen. Her parents told her that like many college students of his generation, he was disillusioned with the corrupt Manchu monarchy. After graduation, he continued his clandestine activities and helped to establish the Republican government. When they finally married, Righteous Virtue was thirty-three years old. She was twenty-two — old for a marriageable girl of her time. She was in awe of his patriotism.
Now Righteous Virtue had come into his full inheritance. He had built schools and a hospital, and his generosity had become legendary. People admired his modern education, and he was elected to the local legislative council with support from the gentry. Purple Jade had always been impressed by his quiet confidence and thought of him as the ideal Chinese gentleman — erudite, tolerant of human frailties, and correct in his behavior to ancestors, friends, and family.
Purple Jade’s thoughts drifted to her present concerns again, and she groaned. In spite of her close supervision of her family and part of the Chou family silk business, she found it difficult to concentrate when the country was in turmoil. She still felt outraged that the Westerners had carved up prime real estate in the major cities into concessions where foreigners could enjoy extraterritorial rights and privileges. Japan had occupied Manchuria for some time now, but China remained weak because the Chinese Communists, Nationalists, Fascists, Socialists and other ideologues never ceased to squabble for control. Her husband had told her something important was happening in Xian. The Japanese had killed Marshal Zha
ng Hsueh-liang’s father in Manchuria. Now, the young marshal wanted revenge to fulfill his filial duty. He kidnapped Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek in Xian and forced him to unite with the Communists to fight Japan. Purple Jade’s heart warmed at the thought of civilized Confucian gentlemen, Marshal Zhang, the generalissimo, Chou En-lai, about to unite and set an example of virtuous living. They would become national heroes. Would that mean war with Japan and chaos for the country? She wiped the thought from her mind. Like everyone else, she hoped for peace but also wanted China to remain Chinese. The thoughts brought on the usual fog of apprehension. It seemed to infuse the air she was breathing.
Silver Bell entered with Peony. She carried a copy of the Three Character Book. “M-ma, Father said everything will be all right.”
“Where is Orchid?”
No one answered.
“Well, Peony, go fetch us some tea. Silver Bell, we’ll start our lesson.”
“Oh M-ma, there is so much going on! Can we skip a day?”
“No, Silver Bell. Now repeat after me.”
Purple Jade recited aloud:
“Origin of man
Is always kind.”
Her daughter repeated but her eyes roamed the room.
Soon, Peony returned with a tea service on a tray. Orchid followed with lowered eyes. Peony was serving tea when suddenly Orchid tipped the basin of water on the night table.
“What’s wrong Orchid?” Purple Jade faced her. “That is not like you.”
“Tai-tai, I am sorry . . . I went out the back door and saw the corpse,” Orchid blurted out. “They said the girl was from the mission school.”
“Oh no! Who is she?” Purple Jade looked straight into Orchid’s frightened eyes. She sounded more firm and brave than she felt.
“No one knows yet.”
“Have you heard any opposition to the students of . . . of the missionary school?” Purple Jade paused when she remembered her own opposition.