Peter glares at Eric, who looks like he might start to cry any moment.
“Does he have to?” Eric’s chin quivers.
Henry gives his son a warning look. “That’s enough.”
Tears trickle down Eric’s cheeks. “Uncle Bobby sleeps over sometimes. How come Uncle Peter doesn’t have to move into my room then?”
Who is Uncle Bobby?
Peter frowns, drawing his eyebrows together. Eric sniffles and Kathy walks over to console him with a hug.
Gingerly, I chew on a piece of meat. The texture is soft. Henry catches sight of my puzzled look. He grins, causing his wispy mustache to take flight at the corners. “The chicken is different here. You’re used to eating meat that’s tougher.”
“It doesn’t taste bad.”
I’m not really hungry, but Mama has taught us never to leave food unfinished in our bowls. And Ah-Poh used to say to me when I was little that if I left rice grains in my bowl, I would marry a husband with pock-marks on his face. I would try to finish everything on my plate. Sometimes, when no one was looking, I’d sneak into the kitchen and quickly rinse my bowl before anyone saw the leftovers inside.
Since conversation is awkward and dumping the food is out of the question, I gulp the noodles down as quickly as I can before I excuse myself.
Inside the bedroom, I hear the muffled sounds from the television and the occasional clatter of utensils in the kitchen. My ears, accustomed to the incessant thrumming of machinery, take some time to adjust to this deafening silence. Fatigued but wide-eyed, I lie on the bed listening to the crickets chirp. A car halts somewhere outside—a door slams. I wipe away a tear. Then another. Then they stream down unchecked. No point wiping anymore. I give in to the lonely darkness that cloaks this strange room, and I let my mind drift to the last three months of hectic activities back home as I prepared to emigrate, to Peter and my first impressions of him in person, to Toronto and its strangeness.
I wonder what my brothers are doing now. Do they miss me? And Mama? Does she wish I was home and not so far away? Is Papa happy again, now that I am about to marry someone he approves of? Since my engagement, Papa has been more inclined to talk to me and he even smiled at me, something he hasn’t done since Lee-Lan’s death. Although he still does not speak Lee-Lan’s name, he’s lost some of the frown lines on his brow. I know he will never stop blaming me for keeping quiet about her boyfriend Rajesh, but the cloud over my head has parted—for now.
With that comforting thought, I close my eyes and let sleep take over.
·4·
On Victoria Day Mandy—my only friend in Toronto—invites Peter and me to go to Chinatown for dinner.
Mandy and I had studied at the same English-language school in Calcutta. She joined it after she completed Class Six, and I after Class Three at the Chinese school in Tangra. But English didn’t come easily to her and she finally gave up in Class Ten, when Aunt Sue-Lin appeared with her matchmaking proposals. Mandy gladly traded her schooling for a keypunching course. Canada and Steve Chiu beckoned.
When Mandy and Steve arrive at Kathy’s house to pick me up, her familiar face stirs an emotion in me that I never knew existed. She looks like an animated China doll with her straight short hair fringed above the eyebrows and bobbed below the ears. Her fingers touch Steve’s arm possessively as he pumps my hand. He looks just like Mandy, though stockier and more jovial. It would be easy to assume that they have been together a long time instead of just six months.
We gossip about our friends and acquaintances. “Is it true,” she asks “that Susan Lee went to a movie theatre with Richard Wong, and now her parents are insisting they get married?”
“Yes, they will be engaged next week. I think they purposely let people see them together. Richard’s parents weren’t keen on Susan, but her parents cried foul when the two were seen together in public.”
Mandy wants to hear more about how Elizabeth Chang secretly dated a boy who worked for her father. When Elizabeth’s parents found out, they sent her to Taiwan to live with her aunt and uncle, and fired the boyfriend.
If Steve didn’t pointedly look at his watch, Mandy would have continued plying me with questions. She says, “Peter, you take the front seat with Steve. Jie-Lan and I will sit at the back. We have so much catching up to do!”
The Chinese restaurant is much bigger and noisier than any I have been to. There is not a single Caucasian face here and everyone speaks Cantonese which sounds more foreign to me than Hindi, which I do speak, albeit less fluently than English or Hakka.
When we have sat down at our table, Mandy asks, “So, when are you two getting married?”
My eyes meet Peter’s. He says, “First Saturday in August.”
I touch Mandy’s arm. “Will you be my bridesmaid? I know it’s unusual to ask a married woman, but you’re my only friend here.”
Had I been married in Tangra, I would have had at least four bridesmaids. Without the watchful eyes of our parents, old traditions fly out the window as we make the best of our new circumstances.
“Oooh . . . I’d love to. Are you sure? Is it appropriate?” Mandy’s normally husky voice goes up an octave.
“Of course I’m sure, and who cares if it’s appropriate or not? We’re in Canada.”
The last time Mandy grinned this way, was when she informed me about her engagement to Steve and she would be quitting school.
“What should I wear for the wedding?”
“I have no idea yet. Let’s go shopping soon. When you got married, where did your bridesmaid find her dress?”
I have been told that you can find beautiful dresses off the racks in the stores in Toronto.
“We went to Eaton’s and found this gorgeous pink gown on sale. It fitted her perfectly and was just right for the occasion.”
While a waiter sets one dish after another on our table, we make plans to go to the Eaton Centre the following weekend. She plays the perfect hostess, piling my plate with selections of the food.
As we eat she keeps chatting. At length, a long stem of Chinese broccoli between her chopsticks, she utters, “Lee-Lan should have been the bridesmaid.”
I stop chewing, breathe slowly for a few seconds. Mandy always had a knack for sticking her foot in her mouth.
Peter’s eyebrows push the lines in his forehead high into the hairline. “Who’s Lee-Lan?”
Mandy replies, oblivious to my discomfort, “Didn’t you know that Lee-Lan was Jie-Lan’s sister? She was more beautiful than Jie-Lan, if you can believe that. If only she hadn’t met that awful Indian boy.”
“Please Mandy, let’s not talk about Lee-Lan.” The food sticks in my throat.
“I just can’t help feeling sad for you. What a dreadful thing to happen. Let’s hope our kids only date and marry Chinese people.”
All eyes turn to me. I choose my words carefully. “Hakka men do bad things too. Do you remember the murder in that alley near the Yangs’ place? Everyone knows who killed that Indian man.”
“But that’s different,” Steve says. “The guy was bad and he cheated the Chinese and even blackmailed some of them.”
Mandy agrees. “That no-good Indian even cheated your papa once, don’t you remember?”
Over the next few weeks I experience many firsts: Coca-Cola in cans, milk in plastic bags (in Tangra, milk comes straight from the cow), pudding to eat right out of a can after pulling back the lid. I gawk at the merchandise in the supermarkets. They hand out plastic bags with abandon; Mama always saves them, washing and re-using them until they wear out.
Every Saturday, Peter and his friends meet at one of their residences to play poker. This is a common passtime for Hakka young men in Toronto, though I never heard about such activities in Calcutta. On my first Saturday, an hour before dinner time, two friends drop by. They can hardly hide their curiosi
ty about me. Bobby Hsu and John Chen went to the same school in Calcutta as Peter. Kathy invites them to stay for dinner. They protest, but need very little persuasion.
Eric had referred to “Uncle Bobby” when I first arrived in Toronto. He has feminine good looks, and wears a long-sleeved, bright red and black print shirt that tightly hugs his slim body. His slender fingers frequently tease and smooth his almost shoulder-length hair, and at times he pushes stray hair away from his eyes with a flick of his hand.
In contrast, John looks like he just rolled out of bed, his T-shirt with stains and his trousers loose and crumpled. He openly gawks at me. “Do you know that Jie-Lan was once crowned Miss Tangra?” he asks no one in particular, in Hakka.
“Really? I hadn’t heard.” Peter’s eyebrows do the now-familiar arch.
I blush. John appears to have checked up on me.
“That was nothing,” I say. “It was just a silly dance party. Whoever got the most bangles from the boys became Miss Tangra.”
I remember the evening well. Mama wouldn’t agree to let us attend the dance—I’d begged her using all the charm in my repertoire—and then Lee-Lan burst into tears. Mama relented. No one could resist those tears.
John pursues the subject.
“I heard that you were the most popular girl that evening. The boys were lined up to dance with you.”
“My, my, do we have a social butterfly here?” Bobby smirks.
Mortified, I say, “I only went to parties that my friends threw . . . maybe four times in total.”
“Don’t worry, your reputation is intact. Peter did his homework well when he chose a bride.” Bobby curls his lips. What does he mean? Does he dislike me? We have only just met.
During dinner, John, who sits across from me, tells me that he works with Peter in an automotive parts factory.
“What do you do at your job?” I ask.
John laughs. “I’m like the labourers at the leather tanneries back home. But here’s the best part, I operate a machine just like them, and yet I get paid much more than those workers.”
“Don’t your parents own a factory in Tangra?”
“Yes, they do. I’m the youngest of eight. My eldest brother has taken over the business. With three more brothers helping, they don’t need me there.” He looks at Peter and shakes his head. “Now Peter here is the only son, and yet his parents let him emigrate.”
I’d wondered about that before, but Peter didn’t offer any explanation when I asked. His chopsticks in midair, he now says, “My father is still young and he can manage without me. I’m doing well as a welder here, but I can always go back home if I want to.”
Easy for him to say that . . . unlike him, I cannot go back home if I want to. Once I’m married, I belong with my husband.
After dinner, Henry brings out a thick red blanket—made in Hong Kong and popular with the Indian Hakkas—and spreads it over the dining table. Kathy puts down two decks of playing cards and the four men each take a seat. I watch Henry’s dexterous fingers fan, shuffle, and deal the cards. This is my first introduction to these Saturday poker parties.
Although the stakes are low, I can’t help wondering what Papa would think when he finds out his son-in-law plays poker for money. Papa does not approve of alcohol, smoking or gambling. He just tolerates Blackjack during the Chinese New Year, when the young people and children play it with small change, believing it would bring bad luck to get angry at this time.
The men chatter and crack jokes as they play. Coins clink as they are thrown into the centre. Bills pile on top. Winnings are collected. The phone rings, it’s Mandy. She and her husband are at a party in St James Town, where a poker game is in progress as well. I will have to get used to such Saturday nights.
In early July I am introduced to my new home in St James Town—a plain, rust-coloured fourteen-storey apartment building with no balcony. Its best feature is its location at a dead-end street near the Bloor subway line.
We pick up the keys at the superintendent’s office, and ride a creaky elevator to our fifth-floor apartment. Stale food odours greet us as we step into the corridor. We pass two doors before arriving at ours.
As soon as we enter I begin to inspect our unit. I stride across the empty living room and slide the grimy glass windows open, breathe in the fresh air and look down at Peter’s car parked against the curb in front of the building. A chugging sound comes from the kitchen. It’s the refrigerator. I wander around, observe the dust-caked baseboards and balls of lint and hair on the parquet floor, until I reach a short hallway next to the kitchen. Two bedrooms on my right. The door at the end facing me opens into a bathroom. I will need Mandy’s help to make this place habitable.
There's a knocking on the door and I go to open it.
“Hello there.” Bobby leans against the frame with snake-like grace, an arm raised, his T-shirt riding up at the waist, revealing pale skin.
“Oh, I thought you were Mandy.”
“Baby, do I look like a girl?”
I wish he would stop smirking. “Oh, no . . . I mean, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Bobby, is that you?” Peter calls out.
“Yup, it’s me,” Bobby chuckles as though he's heard a private joke. He turns to me. “Are you going to let me in?”
“Sorry, where are my manners? Are you here to help us move?”
“Peter asked me to come by and give him a hand. I live on the fourth floor, you know.” He winks at me.
No, I didn’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know still about Peter’s friends.
Bobby saunters in, his rubber slippers flip-flopping with every step.
“Bobby and I will go back to Kathy’s house to bring over some things while you’re cleaning,” Peter says. “I need his help to load all that stuff we’re storing in her basement.”
I shrug. “That’s fine. Mandy should be here soon.” I glance at my watch. Nine-thirty.
Mandy arrives just as I am about to tackle the stove with my cleaning aids.
“Where’s Peter?” she asks, looking around.
“He left with Bobby to bring some of our things from Kathy’s basement.”
“Is Bobby going to be Peter’s best man?”
“Yes . . . do you know anything about him? He gives me the creeps.”
“Not much. He’s a bit strange, but he’s harmless. He shares his apartment with two other guys—brothers from Tangra. They work during the day and he works the late shift. It’s a great arrangement for them. Right now, they’re in Sweden visiting their sister. Bobby used to live near New Market in Calcutta before he came here a couple of years ago.”
“I get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”
“Okay, now you’re being silly. What reason could he have for not liking you?”
“I don’t know. I feel very uncomfortable every time he’s around,” I tell her, scrubbing hard at the stove top.
“Maybe it’s because he’s such good friends with Peter and he thinks you’re going to come between them. Peter and his buddies like to play poker every weekend. I already heard his friends say that you’ll probably stop these parties once you’re married.”
I give a sigh. I hardly feel in control. “There’s a lot I have to learn about Peter. You didn’t meet Steve until you got here. What was it like for you when you first met?”
“It was awkward at first, but Steve’s really easy-going. He tried hard to please me when I got here. We seem to have a lot in common. Yeah, there are still some things about him that bug me, but I try to get past them.”
What happened to the giggly girl I knew?
Mandy and I split the cleaning chores. By the time Peter and Bobby return, only the floors need a good sweep. My stomach growls when I see Peter with a box of pizza. No wonder . . . it’s almost two.
Bobby has changed into another tight T-shirt. He holds a cardboard box and shuffles inside.
“Let me take that for you,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t lift your little fingers now. I’ll put it wherever you want. This box is heavy.”
I search his face for signs of mockery, but he only smiles. I feel guilty for thinking mean thoughts about him earlier.
While we eat, Kathy and her family arrive. They bring a few more items inside.
“You guys sure took a long time getting back here,” she says. “You left my place a while back.”
I catch a quick glance between Peter and Bobby. Then Peter says, “We stopped to get pizza, but they got our orders mixed up and we had to wait while they started all over again.”
Bobby chuckles. “Yeah, they got our orders wrong. What a bunch of idiots.”
I don’t find this amusing, but I shrug and chide myself for being critical. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that a snake has slid over my back as a chill courses down.
I am glad that I will move out of Kathy’s place soon, but I’m also scared. I want to have a place that I can call home in this new country, but that would mean Peter and I will be married; this thought terrifies me. I just wish we could be friends before we become husband and wife.
We spend the next few weeks shopping for furniture. One store after another, bedroom suites, tables and chairs—they all blur into confusing images. We visit Woolco’s for the third time in two weeks to assess the same sofa set. The salesman makes us an offer and leaves us alone to talk it over.
“Are you sure you like this?” Peter asks.
“I don’t mind it, although I still prefer the one we saw yesterday.”
“That set is more expensive than this one.”
“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that we buy that. I like this one too.”
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