The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  The altars were covered in offerings of flowers and tea, carved papaya and red fruits. The two red candles had been lit, and on either end of the sam kai altar there were two glass lamps. For the duration of the wedding, Zhen had discovered, a man would be responsible for the flames in these lamps, for if they went out it would be terribly bad luck. On the floor between the altars was a large, round, bamboo tray, and on a red spot in the centre stood a wooden tub, mouth upward, covered in a red cloth. Zhen knew he was supposed to sit on this open tub and had had to stifle a desire to laugh, especially when he thought of his prospective bride doing the same thing at the same moment at Tan’s house. Perhaps her arse was so big she couldn’t fall in, he thought and had to swallow hard at both the comical and horrible possibilities that this created in his mind.

  He recalled the story of the ritual cat his Zen master had told the young men in the monastery.

  When the teacher and his disciples began their evening meditiation, the cat that lived in the monastery made such a noise that it distracted them. So the teacher ordered that the cat be tied up during the evening practice. Years later, when the teacher died, the cat continued to be tied up during the meditation session. And when the cat eventually died, another cat was brought to the monastery and tied up. Centuries later, learned descendants of the spiritual teacher wrote scholarly treatises about the religious significance of tying up a cat for meditation practice.

  In the presence of half a dozen of Tan’s employees, the master of ceremonies and three pageboys, he stepped, at the appointed moment, onto the bamboo tray. The air was heavy with stanggee incense.

  Noan sat down on the tub without a grimace, although it was thoroughly uncomfortable. She took the Book of Fate from the pageboy into her lap as the mistress of ceremonies loosened her hair. A Chinese scale was passed over her head and down to her feet as a reminder to weigh all her actions fairly in life. A Chinese ruler came next, followed by a pair of scissors and a razor, exhorting the exercise of sincerity, good judgement and care. Noan’s mother and youngest sisters were now sobbing quietly. Noan, too, had tears running down her cheeks; she was exhausted by the day spent greeting the female guests seated unsmilingly on the hard chairs and the endless rehearsal, the melancholy strains of the seroni music in the half-darkness, the flame of the glass lamps bringing the realisation of her passage into her new life.

  Zhen wanted to squirm but sat stock still. Finally it was over and, rising, he paid obeisance to the two altars and left the room, his hair hanging loose down his back. When everyone had left, he joined Ah Pok and the other old Malay servant in the kitchen, got out the rice wine and proceeded to get as drunk as he was able. This marriage, which he had embraced as fortunate beyond his dreams, now seemed like a trap.

  The next morning, when he was wakened rudely by one of the pak chindek’s assistants, he regretted the drinking bout. Really, where was the bloody privacy in this house? He was naked and hot, and the old man was chattering at him in incomprehensible Baba Malay. He rose, growling, and the old man ran out of the room.

  The barber again, this time a thorough cleaning up. The razor was sharpened on the leather strop and run rapidly over Zhen’s head, down the cheeks, around the neck and between the eyebrows and eyelashes. Pulling back Zhen’s head, he scraped his tongue and cleaned the teeth with a sharp wooden stick. Then with small scissors he searched for stray hairs in his nostrils and ears, then cleaned the ears with tweezers. Finally he took his hands, scraped each nail and cuticle and massaged his hands. This ritual complete, he gathered up his tools and left. Now Zhen was again scrubbed and rinsed and sprinkled with scented water. He felt like a pig being prepared for the spit. Finally he was allowed to rest until it came time to dress in the heavy costume. Ah Pok made him some tea and rice, and he threw himself into a chair.

  Noan, too, was sitting, for the wedding garments she was wearing were so heavy they made movements hard. She was hot, although the day was cool, and a servant fanned her constantly. The white silk outfit of the previous night had been covered with garments made of thick cotton to absorb sweat, then a rigid outfit of bamboo, over which lay the stiffly embroidered heavy silk skirt and coat. She felt like a trussed-up chicken. Her hair had been dragged into a topknot and pinned with a hundred gold pins, each finished with a floret, giving her the appearance of wearing a crown. The tightness of the hair hurt, and the pins rubbed her scalp. Her mother’s heavy gold-and-diamond jewellery covered her chest, hung from her ears, festooned every finger. The last thing to go on would be the crown of gold, covered in little bouncing peonies and phoenixes over a band of the eight Taoist immortals. She could hardly breathe and sat steamily waiting for the groom’s arrival. She drank only a little water, for the idea that she might need to urinate was terrifying.

  As the procession was announced, her heart started to beat faster. She thought she might faint, and only the sangkek um’s fierce looks stopped her. She took some water and calmed down a little. The only blessing was that her period had not started.

  Zhen stood behind a pair of six-sided silk lanterns flanked by two young men Tan had chosen to be his companions, followed by the pak chindek richly dressed in Malay costume. Qian had been invited to the groom’s banquet that afternoon, but he had come down to see this procession and watch as Zhen left his house. First came the wailing band, then two lanterns with his name in characters and two gong beaters banging as loudly as they could. Red tassels and bunting came by, then a severe-looking fellow carrying an open fan, shielded from the sun by a large umbrella carried by a bearer. Qian saw Zhen and tried to catch his eye, but his friend looked straight ahead, impassive.

  He wore a short red jacket with a dragon motif and gold border over a long, red-and-gold gown with black-and-gold beaded slippers. Qian wanted to tell him he looked ridiculous. On his head was a black mandarin cap with a brooch of gold and diamonds and a diamond button on the top. He carried a large fan covered in pink phoenixes and peonies. Qian thought he looked like a Mongolian princess and was dying to impart this good news. He raced ahead of the procession desperate to catch Zhen’s eye. Finally, as they turned into Market Street, he called his name and Zhen looked at him. Qian mimed small, mincing steps.

  From behind his fan Zhen beckoned him with all four fingers, palm upwards, as you would a piece of low scum you’d like to beat, and passed by as impassive as ever. A shallow basket of bamboo stood in the doorway of Tan’s mansion, covered with paper flowers. As soon as Zhen stepped over this basket, the fireworks under it were lit and he was ushered forward to the inner courtyard in a deafening hail of explosions. Behind him the bridges were burning.

  Here, eager relatives rushed to sprinkle him with scented water and shower him with saffron-coloured rice. Zhen saw Baba Tan trying to suppress a smile, supposed that the plump, darker woman by his side was his wife. There were the three sisters. He had seen the youngest, for she was only nine and came sometimes with her father to the godown. She was a skinny child, quite plain. The other two were standing by their mother’s side, getting a first look at their sister’s new husband. The second daughter was lost for words. Zhen was the best-looking man she had ever seen. She was suddenly blackly jealous of Noan. She was the pretty one; he should be her husband.

  Zhen took them in. The second daughter was very pretty, light- skinned and slim, dressed in pink, but she looked rather sour-faced. The third one was pretty too, but short, and her eyes seemed too close together. Doubtless Tan loved them all.

  Then he was led through the door and into the main hall. The light grew dimmer.

  Noan jumped as she heard the crackers go off, and the mistress of ceremonies rushed to fit her crown and cover her head with a black veil. As she heard the master of ceremonies call that the time had come for bride and groom to meet, the woman helped Noan to her feet and led her out.

  Zhen looked at this woman he had contracted to marry. She was short, and in these thick clothes she looked squat. Her head was lowered, and he could see nothin
g of her face through the veil. Noan kept her eyes down, but she felt his body close to hers, like a furnace, remembering the sight of him so long ago. With the sangkek um and the pak chindek on either side, they were led slowly upstairs to the bridal chamber. Noan thought her legs might fail her and leaned on her mistress of ceremonies. The guests swarmed like locusts behind them.

  In front of all Tan’s relatives who had pushed and squeezed themselves into the room, Zhen put out his hands to remove the veil. With the mistress helping, he lifted the black cloth and gazed for the first time on the face of his future wife.

  A little pastry, was his first thought. A doughy dumpling covered in white powder. The powder was ominous, probably meant she was dark-skinned. Her lips were full and red, quite pretty. Her eyes were resolutely towards the floor. For the rest it was impossible to tell. His thoughts flew to Charlotte’s delicate features and ivory skin. His inner eye began roving around in his memory. Kissing her little white feet as she slid her legs onto his shoulders. Burying his face in her hair. Watching her eyes as she—

  He felt a small shove in his side. He was urged, with fierce looks, to sit in one of the embroidered chairs opposite his bride. On the table between them were twelve dishes of food and a pair of burning candles.

  Zhen knew what was expected of him, and they both went through the series of movements and gestures symbolic of having a meal together without actually eating anything. For most of the time Noan kept her head modestly bowed, looking only at his mouth, from which she drew a pulse-quickening pleasure. Only once did she look up to see him watching her. He showed nothing in his eyes, and she looked down immediately, disconcerted and trembling slightly.

  Then a gasp went up in the room, and Zhen looked at the gathered throng. The candle on the bride’s side had gone out, a whiff of air from her sleeve stopping the flame. This meant she would die before her husband.

  Her mother put her hand to her mouth. Noan had been taught so carefully to beware of this. The second daughter looked on impassively.

  Noan felt tears well up in her eyes. Fortunately the time had come for her to leave the room, and she was escorted out, with the guests all following. Zhen stayed with the pak chindek who helped him change his clothes to a light black-and-red silk jacket and trousers. Noan returned briefly and, standing behind Zhen, took a comb and began to symbolically comb his hair as a gesture of serving him. She took in his thick, shiny black queue, the way his shoulders filled his jacket.

  Then Zhen was quickly led out of the room. He would return mid-afternoon for lunch alone, while the bride rested and changed into another costume, and then he would change again and pay his respects to the altars and the elders. Normally this would be followed by the bride paying her respects to his family but, since there was no one to pay any respects to, this part had been discreetly dropped, and the groom’s dinner was to be held at Tan’s. Zhen was heartily sick of it all, but he had made a solemn promise that he would not spoil this day for his benefactor.

  Qian came to the dinner, and Zhen was overjoyed to see a face he trusted in this crowd. The dinner went on for hours, dish following dish, all the men drinking heavily. Tan and the older men were absent, for this was the groom’s party and it would be followed by the traditional ragging of the bride.

  The second daughter could not wait for this part now. Noan must not smile no matter what anyone did. All the young girls hid behind a curtain as the men, drunk and noisy, entered the room. Between her teeth she had an areca nut clenched so as not to laugh, for to laugh would disgrace her husband. Fortunately, she was so exhausted and hot she had not the slightest inclination to laugh. Zhen had drunk a little too much, finally, enjoying the meal and the company of Qian and the other men. From behind the gauzy curtain the second daughter watched Zhen standing in the doorway. He raised his arms behind his head, stretching slightly, watching as the men pranced and mimed in front of his new wife. The second sister saw a flash of taut skin. From behind the curtain she devoured him with her eyes. Finally this noisy display was over, and all the men left, Zhen and Qian half-drunk, arm in arm, returning to his house. In three hours a page would come to him with a red lantern and lead him back to the bridal chamber. Eyes would peep from houses along the way and watch hidden from Tan’s windows. Then he would be alone with her for the first time.

  39

  The door closed behind him. His wife was standing in the room, head lowered. She was wearing white silk pyjamas like him. He had followed the swaying red lantern back to Tan’s house. The pak chindek had taken him to a small room to change and opened a side door to the bridal chamber. Now here he was. Until this moment, he had not realised how much he was dreading this, sure of his mind, his capacities. The hideous thought of failure entered his mind like a worm.

  He looked at her from the doorway, a small white figure in a room filled with red. Her hair had been brushed and now hung thickly to her shoulders. The heavy make-up was gone, though her skin was dusted with a thin layer of powder, and she wore some lipstick. She stood, hands by her side, unmoving. Poor thing, he thought. He’d seen so many virgins, and felt weary of them. Xia Lou was the last one he wanted, but now here was another.

  He moved to the table, where a French crystal water jug stood and, clanking the lip against the glass, poured and drank. He was dry from the rice wine. He and Qian had continued drinking at his house, and he was still half-drunk. Sitting heavily on the embroidered chair he poured a glass for her. Had to get this started somehow.

  ‘Eh! Come here.’

  Noan looked up shyly. He was holding a glass of water, and she went up close to him and took it, sipping it delicately, wanting desperately to touch him but not daring. ‘Let your husband do everything, and be quiet’ had been her mother’s parting words.

  He watched her drinking, her eyes lowered. Then he took the glass and put it on the table, released the silk cord at her waist, opening it, looking at her breasts. Not small, like Xia Lou’s. Hers fitted perfectly into his hand. This girl’s were brown, full. Despite himself, he could see she was firm and luscious. He felt annoyed at himself for wanting to touch her, felt it a betrayal. Suddenly he was annoyed at this girl as well, for tempting him. He was irritated by her passivity and down-turned eyes. He knew his powers; he could change it all, turn her into a creature of love and lust in one night, but he did not want to. He did not want her to dream of him, long for him, expect anything from him. He could not know it was all too late.

  Noan stood absolutely still, waiting.

  Something dark flapped across Zhen’s mind. She was his property, body and soul. She had been raised correctly; he could do whatever he wanted with her. Not like Xia Lou: she would never be his like this. He cupped Noan’s breasts in his hands, pulling her forward, and began to suckle her, running his tongue over her, burying his face in their soft fullness, his bleary mind not able to control his body’s physical reaction, remembering other skin.

  She was elated. She pleased him; he wanted her. She had known this would feel good, and it did. She put her hands to his head, and he suddenly stopped, pulling his head away, dropping his hands. Don’t touch me, he wanted to scream at her. She tensed as he pulled the cord on the pyjama bottom, letting it slide to the floor, and began to run his hands over her backside. He turned her. He wanted to look at this wife of his. She was shapely, a small waist and swelling hips. Not like Xia Lou’s willowy perfection, fitting into his body like Venus in the arms of the moon.

  He shook his head. Xia Lou wasn’t his wife; this one was. He didn’t have to please her; the man who would please her was not in the room. No matter what he did, she was powerless. He put his fingers into the crack of her backside, spreading it, pushing his finger in slightly. She tensed as he knew she would, not expecting this, but made not a sound. He wanted to violate her. Hideous thoughts ran like dirty feet through his mind. But he stopped, shaking his head, clearing it. He was foggy still, he knew. He took another drink of water.

  He stood, made her fa
ce him. Took off his clothes and let her see him. Any touching she was allowed to do would be controlled by him. He took her hand and put it on his chest over the face of Guan Di, running it down his waist and over his hips onto his half-erect penis. Noan’s heart was beating out of her chest. He was so beautiful, the tattoo on his muscled brown skin unexpected but arousing. He began moving her hand, pulling her head against his chest, squashing her breasts against him, holding her there. Zhen had not the slightest desire to kiss her, though he knew that she was waiting for this.

  Then, as he became hard, he swept off the coverlets of the bed and lifted her onto it. He made her lie down and pushed her legs into the air. Little voices entered his mind from far away, whispering, but they were so faint he couldn’t make them out.

  He pushed himself inside her, feeling the resistance, and then a hot stickness. His genitals were covered in red, the blood staining the sheet and his brain filled with fire. He began thrusting so hard he was pushing her up the bed, her head trapped against a red silk bolster. He took her arms and pinned them to the mattress. Noan was terrified. She began to cry out, and Zhen’s head flew up and he looked into her face for the first time, seeing the terror, enjoying it, looking at her mouth, red lips, pink teeth, red tongue. Blood filled his eyes.

  He covered her mouth with his hand, lifted her leg in his arm, trapping her, until with a great groan he came, massively pumping his semen into her to the last drop.

  Listening in the dressing room, the sangkek um and the pak chindek smiled at each other. The marriage had been consummated. If the muffled cries and groans they had heard were anything to go by, both parties had enjoyed themselves. Not many families asked for this service, but when they did, it was always rather titillating. They’d known each other a long time and in younger days had been tempted, in the low light of other dressing rooms, to certain erotic activities. Their job would not end for eleven more days but the bride’s parents would be pleased. A grandson was surely on its way. They retired for the night.