Picture Bride

by C. Fong Hsiung

  I look away and elbow Mama gently. She glances up to see what I see. Quickly she pays the vendor and ushers me towards the road. “Don’t pay attention to that woman. She’s been bad-mouthing you ever since you left her son. Now that he’s dead and everyone knows what he did, no one believes what she says about you anymore.”

  “Why didn’t you and Papa believe me?”

  “We didn’t know what to think. Aunt Sue-Lin assured us that Peter came from a good family and would never do anything that would shame his parents.”

  “I am your daughter. Doesn’t my word count?”

  “Yes, of course. And we want only what’s best for you. Sometimes that means doing things we don’t like. We thought Aunt Sue-Lin couldn’t be wrong about Peter, so we hoped that you would go back to him.”

  “Don’t ever let Aunt Sue-Lin match-make for Shane and Robert. She’s only interested in getting her hung pao, not in our well-being.”

  Mama halts and casts me a troubled look. “You mustn’t say that. She’s a good person. She can’t always find the right match for you fussy young people these days.”

  “Well, I don’t want to have anything to do with her.”

  We walk the rest of the way in silence.

  When we arrive home, I head straight for the phone in the living room. I hold the clunky black receiver and dial zero. With luck I will catch Daniel before he goes to bed.

  “Who are you calling?” Papa startles me from behind.

  “Oh, Papa, the phone is out of order.”

  “It’s been out since yesterday.” A fine bead of sweat clings to his brow. His morning walk has been vigorous.

  “I was hoping to call Daniel. He’ll be worried about me.”

  I catch a fleeting shift in his gaze. “Why don’t you write a note instead? I’ll telegram it for you when I go out this morning.”

  “Oh, that would be nice. I would prefer to call, though. Perhaps Robert can drive me to the post office today.”

  “Don’t be silly. Long distance calls are expensive. He’ll receive your telegram tomorrow.”

  I have to admit that Papa is correct, but I cannot quell my disappointment—I will not have the pleasure of hearing Daniel’s voice today.

  Although my maternal grandparents live a brisk walk away, the sky, dark with swollen rain clouds, persuades Mama to opt for the Ambassador instead. From the backseat, I glance at the rearview mirror in time to see the driver watch us with a strange expression before he looks away. Shane said that they hired this new twenty-something Indian recently after Gopal, our old driver, retired to his village. The bushy mustache and greasy black hair curling over the top of his brown-ringed collar do little to warm me towards the new guy, Mohan. Gopal was a chatterbox, while Mohan opens his mouth only when we speak to him.

  The driver delivers us to my grandparents’ tannery without any incident on the way. No hand-drawn thela gari was stuck in a pothole to stall us, and the only cow in our path ambled away at the sound of our horn.

  Grandma Lee—or Lee Ah-Poh as we prefer to call her—has a black apron around her generous waist while she trims freshly-dried leather stacked on a work table. One hand holds and moves a sheet of the rough and unfinished skin while the other slices the edges with a small sharp knife.

  We approach her from the side. She sees us as she turns to hang a trimmed piece on a wooden horse behind her. The curve of her smile and her plump cheeks remind me of my childish drawings of the smiling sun.

  “My favourite granddaughter is home,” Lee Ah-Poh says as she reaches behind her waist. With a quick tug, she unties the apron string. She eyes me with a critical gaze. “Don’t you get anything to eat in Canada?”

  I giggle. Lee Ah-Poh brings out the little girl in me. I almost expect her to reach into her pocket underneath her Chinese-style pajama shirt to bring out a coin or two for me just like when I was a child.

  “I do eat a lot,” I reply, “but I don’t put on weight.”

  “Aiya, you have no flesh on those skinny bones. Let me take a good look at you.” She inspects me again from head to toe as we walk past leather towards the rooms. “Stay with Lee Ah-Poh for a few days. I’ll put some meat back on you.”

  “I will . . . soon. Where’s Lee Ah-Kung?”

  “He’s gone to Mr Liu’s house to ask him to fix one of the shaving machines.” She opens the door closest to us.

  We enter an all-purpose room. A round red Formica-topped table, just like Mama’s, dominates the centre. Mama and I circle the table to the back and settle on a black leather sofa against the wall.

  Mama looks concerned. “Why didn’t Ko-Wen go instead? Pa shouldn’t be running around when he’s sick.”

  “Aiya, you know what your younger brother is like. He’s always busy when you need him to do something. He’s testing the colour for a new batch of leather.” Lee Ah-Poh opens the fridge, reaches inside, and retrieves two bottles of Fanta. “Don’t worry about your pa. It’s just a cold.”

  “Pa should take care of his health. At seventy, he’s not a young man anymore.”

  Lee Ah-Poh removes the bottle caps with a metal opener attached by a red string to a nail on the wall beside the fridge. She hands a Fanta to me and the other to Mama, who pours half into a glass and gives the remaining half back to her mother.

  “Your brother has been busy with the business. He wants to sell leather to some foreigners. Bah . . . him and his fancy ideas. Your pa did well with the Indians here. Why does he want to change when everything is doing just fine?”

  The door opens and Lee Ah-Kung saunters in. “Jie-Lan, ah. You have come to see your ah-kung and ah-poh.” With a large handkerchief, he wipes his glistening brow, above which the sparse white hair gives the impression of a bald head. Then he wipes his red nose.

  I rise up as Lee Ah-Kung’s slight form approaches. His pixie-like round face breaks into a wide grin, exposing a gold-capped tooth.

  I sit back down. “I’m so glad we got to see you before we left.”

  He perches on a stool in front of me, wiry legs still muscled as ever from years of cycling. Although he pedals at the same pace as I walk, he never goes anywhere without his bicycle. “So tell me, little one, what have you been doing in Canada?”

  “Did Mama tell you that I’m engaged?” I ask casually.

  A shadow crosses over Lee Ah-Kung’s face, fleeting, but long enough for me to see it. Before he can respond, Lee Ah-Poh says with an edge in her voice. “Tina, ah . . . when were you planning to tell us? Do we not deserve to know because we’re the outside grandparents?”

  I observe Mama blushing. I say, “My fiancé is a white man. Papa doesn’t approve.”

  Lee Ah-Poh picks up my left hand and studies my diamond ring. “Aiya, why do you want to marry fankwei?”

  Lee Ah-Kung clears his throat and enunciates slowly in his nasal voice, “Jie-Lan should be allowed to choose whoever she wants to marry. That Peter Chou was the worst thing that could have happened to her.”

  Lee Ah-Poh sniffs and eyes me woefully. “If you must marry this white man, then you have my blessings too.” Turning to Mama, she asks, “What does Chin-Shen have to say about this?”

  Mama mumbles, “You know Chin-Shen and his opinions. He doesn’t approve of the engagement.”

  “Chin-Shen should stop being so stiff-necked. He should care more about his daughter’s happiness than his own reputation.” Lee Ah-Kung was never one to hold back his opinion.

  Mama’s face turns redder than before. “He only wants what’s best for Jie-Lan—”

  “You can’t believe that. He’s only thinking about himself like he’s always done,” Lee Ah-Kung says sharply.

  Flustered, Mama stands up. “It’s getting late. We should leave now.”

  Lee Ah-Poh ties her apron around her waist. “Well, you tell that h
usband of yours to let Jie-Lan live her own life. If she was allowed to get married in the first place and to live in Canada all by herself these last few years, she doesn’t need Chin-Shen’s approval to marry again. We want our granddaughter to be happy.”

  Later that evening after dinner, Papa dismisses Shane and Robert. “I need to talk to your sister.”

  With a shrug, Shane pushes his stool away, followed by Robert. I watch Ayah clear the table, transferring all the dirty dishes and cutlery into a plastic wash basin. Then she wipes the spills and food remnants with a damp cloth until the red table shines.

  Papa clears his throat. “We will have visitors tomorrow.”

  “Uh, sure . . . whatever. Who’s coming?” I glance at Mama, but she is signaling Ayah to come back.

  “You’ll see. Our guests will be arriving after breakfast.” Papa rises and leaves.

  “Who are these people coming to see us?”

  Mama points to a dirty spot Ayah has missed. “Mrs Chen wants to visit.”

  “I didn’t know she was on visiting terms with you and Papa.”

  Mama holds the edge of the table and pushes back her stool. “Uh . . . she wants to meet us about something important.”

  “Then why do I have to be there?”

  “Umm . . . she wants to talk to you about Canada. She may be emigrating there when her daughter’s baby is born in Toronto.”

  I shrug and wander off to join my brothers in the living room where the black and white television has burst into song. They are watching Sunil Dutt and Nargis—two popular Hindi film stars from the fifties and sixties—prance around on the small screen.

  ·21·

  “Jie-Lan, we have visitors.”

  I glance up from the newspaper, which is spread out on the coffee table, and see Ah-Poh smiling from ear to ear. Beside her, a stranger stares at me. I stifle a grin at his remarkable upturned nose with gaping holes for nostrils. I don’t see Mrs Chen behind him until her head bobs to the side to gaze at me with wide-eyed interest.

  Ah-Poh takes her glasses off. “This is Yang Sun Ni. Everyone calls him Sunny, isn’t that right?”

  Eyes crinkling to mere slits, he extends his arm toward me. “Yes, call me Sunny.”

  Reluctantly I stand and take his hand, soft, clammy, and hanging on until I pull mine away. I stand arms akimbo and surreptitiously slide a palm down behind my hip to wipe off the sweat from his handshake. I watch Sunny flick back a strand of long greased hair from his narrow forehead across the receding hairline.

  Ah-Poh tells them to sit.

  Mrs Chen takes a seat on my right and Sunny perches on a chair at the other side of the coffee table. She nods her head like a wooden doll. The frog-shaped clasps at her throat keep her collar tight around the neck. “You used to be a scrawny little thing. Look at you now . . . all grown up and so beautiful.”

  My parents appear together, drawn out by our voices, I assume.

  “Ah, Mrs Chen . . . Sunny, you are early. Have you eaten breakfast?” I bite back a smile at Mama’s typical greeting.

  Pleasantries flow all around. I’m beginning to wonder if I should excuse myself from the inane chatter when Papa says, “Mrs Chen has a proposal. You are aware that Sunny is her nephew from Sweden.”

  A queasy sensation stirs in my stomach. My eyes widen in horror and understanding. I glance at Sunny, whose shirt hangs loose over his lap as he squirms uncomfortably at the edge of his chair. His elbows rest on his knees while his eyes wander towards the window. I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable.

  Mrs Chen gently touches my arm. “My nephew here is looking for a wife.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Sit down, Jie-Lan,” Papa’s stern command stops me from getting up. “You will listen to what we have to say.”

  I gulp and breathe hard. My throat squeaks out a strangled sound. “I’m an adult. You can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do.” I am appalled at my brash response, but I will not let Papa scare me into submission.

  Papa’s eyes flash icy warnings at me. “Ah, you will listen because you’re not going anywhere.”

  I get up to leave. “I will leave when I want.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You can’t go anywhere. I have your passport.”

  My feet stop moving. I whirl around. Mrs Chen’s mouth opens and shuts while Sunny focuses his attention on something on the floor. Ah-Poh comes up to me. With her hands on my elbow, she nudges me towards my chair, but I stand still.

  “You’re going to force me to marry this man whom I’ve just met? I married a stranger once, remember? This is not going to happen to me again.”

  Mama says with a soothing voice, “We know your last marriage didn’t turn out well. That doesn’t mean that this one will be bad too. Sunny has been married before. His wife died two years ago. He has two small children and they need a mother.”

  “What makes you think I want to be their mother? I’m already engaged to Daniel.”

  Papa’s eyes glint. “Yes, and you know how I feel about your marrying fankwei. Sunny is willing to ignore that you were already married once because he wants you to be his wife and mother for his children. He has a big restaurant in Sweden and he is very well-off. Just think, you have to work in Canada, but if you marry him, you will be a restaurant owner with your husband.”

  I cast a scathing glance at Sunny who has yet to utter a word. “I’m leaving.” I storm off to my room. I cannot believe that my parents want me to marry that man out there.

  I bury my face in my pillow. “Daniel, I need you,” I whisper.

  I hear the inevitable opening and closing of my door as soon as the voices in the living room cease. Without turning around I yell, “Please go away. I told you I’m not marrying Sunny and that’s it.”

  Papa’s deep voice startles me—I was expecting Mama or Ah-Poh.

  “You are behaving like a child and I will not put up with it.”

  I turn and hold Papa’s gaze with steady eyes. “Papa, you can’t tell me what to do anymore. I am . . . was a married woman, and I no longer need your permission for anything I do now.”

  “You are still my daughter, so you will obey me.”

  A hysterical laugh escapes me. “You seem to have forgotten that you disowned me already. You gave up your right to be my father when you did that.”

  Papa’s face blanches visibly. Fists clenched and jaws taut, he says between tight lips, “What has happened to you in Canada? You have become disrespectful to your own parents.”

  This time, I laugh without restraint. “You forced me to marry Peter who was only interested in men. I have been to hell and back. Now I’m going to marry a man who loves me, and you have a problem with that? Tell me how am I supposed to respect you for that?”

  “I will not stand here and listen to your insults. You cannot go back to Canada because you’re not getting your passport back until you agree to marry Sunny. On Ah-Poh’s big birthday celebration, I will announce your engagement in the newspaper.”

  I hear him, but I cannot believe him. “You can’t do that,” I whisper.

  “Yes, I can and I will.”

  Papa bangs the door shut behind him.

  Later that morning, when Papa and Shane leave for the cowhide market, I search for Robert. I follow loud strains of the Rolling Stones towards his room.

  Easing the door open, I poke my head inside. “Hey, Robert, can you give me a ride to the post office?”

  Robert closes his book. “Sure . . . why do you need to go there?”

  “I have to call Daniel. Our phone is still not working.”

  “Oof . . . the stupid telephone line here never works when you need it. I don’t know why we pay for the service when most of the time it’s down.” Robert opens the top dr
awer of the desk and retrieves a set of keys. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are you going?” Ah-Poh’s voice calls out across the hall from the kitchen.

  “Robert is driving me to visit Mandy’s parents,” I lie.

  Robert raises his eyebrows at me. I put a finger on my lips and shake my head.

  At the foot of the stairs, Robert wheels the Vespa scooter around to face the door. While he inserts the key, I swing one leg over the backseat. Most of the women sit side-saddle, but I like the sense of freedom I get from the wind coming against my face and whipping my hair back. My legs gripping both sides of the scooter, I brace for the bumpy ride.

  Robert lets loose a string of beeps to clear the way. A woman wobbles away with a stack of rawhide on her head, her discoloured sari hiked up to her knees. She reminds me—with a twinge of conscience—of how we used to throw little water-filled balloons from our veranda at the loads on the workers’ heads. When Mama caught us we would grease our legs and backsides in anticipation of the lashing from the stick end of her yard-long feather duster.

  Robert parks in front of a grimy concrete building, and I glance at my watch. Quick mental math tells me that the time is after one AM in Toronto. I should reach him in his bed at this hour.

  I explain to Robert the purpose of this mission as we make our way into the post office.

  The operator is drumming a pencil on the counter, a vacant look on his face. He lifts his eyes when I approach. In the best Hindi I can muster, I tell him that I want to place a call to Toronto and hand him a piece of paper with Daniel’s phone number on it. His index finger crawls no faster than a snail, dipping and rising in the little numbered dial holes. I wring my sweaty palms behind me while I wait. When he hands me the black mouthpiece, I grab it like a lifeline. He glares at me, but I turn away as I place one end to my ear, the other near my mouth, and pray for Daniel to pick up the phone.