The Witch's Market

by Mingmei Yip

  Maria swung her arm around and pointed toward the back of the castle. “Right here, just behind the castle wall.”

  I felt a jolt. Maria seemed to be pointing to the same place where I’d encountered Cecily and her band of witches.

  To distract myself from this scary thought, I asked, “Maria, does Señor Alfrenso still miss his wife? He never remarried, right?”

  “There are many things señor does not tell me. He worries that all women are after his money. He says he’s waiting for one who doesn’t care about his wealth. But I told him that’s like waiting for a barren woman to bear a child. But that was before you came, Señorita Eileen. Señor Alfrenso likes you. Very much.”

  “Please don’t joke.”

  “Many women have tried to get close to him. He only has ever invited you to stay—and for as long as you like.”

  “But why me? I’m not rich or beautiful. And I can’t sing.”

  “I think it’s because you never asked him anything about his money, about how much the castle costs, or his Bentley.”

  Maybe sometimes it’s true that opposites attract. I needed money to live on like everybody else. But if that was all I cared about I’d already be married to Ivan. So I guessed I must seem different to Alfredo.

  Just then, Maria got up to clear and I saw that she was quite unsteady on her feet. I worried she would fall as she tried to navigate the complex passages of the castle. I told her to clean up in the morning and helped her back to her room. She was asleep as soon as I set her on her bed. I tiptoed out, closed her door, and went to the library. There was a decanter of Madeira on the table, so I poured myself a glass and sat down. I was not in a mood to read. I just sat quietly to digest what Maria had told me about Alfredo and Penelope.

  Between the revelations I’d just heard and the wine wearing off, I was too restless to sleep. I decided to take advantage of the situation and explore more of the castle. Since I was already familiar with the ballroom, music room, dining room, and a few others, I walked past those rooms and continued down the long corridor.

  When I reached the end and was about to turn back I felt an odd sensation, a vibration emanating from somewhere. I turned around and realized it was coming from behind paneling at the end of the corridor. When I approached I realized that what I’d thought was decoration on the paneling was actually a door. As I approached more closely the vibration intensified, so I decided it must be inviting me to enter.

  Both fear and common sense told me to ignore this vibration and go back to my room. Yet the pull of the energy and my curiosity would not let go of me. So I turned the knob, only to find that the door was locked. The more I twisted, the more I felt the urgent qi pulling on me. Finally, I just leaned my weight against the panel and, to my surprise, it swung open—like a desperate prostitute’s legs.

  Once I was inside, the door swung shut. I instinctively looked by the entrance for a light switch, found one, and flicked it on. The room was immediately filled with a dim light from a chandelier, revealing lace curtains, tasseled, bejeweled lamps, and delicate female figurines. A woman’s room. Much was in shadow, but as I looked around, I was startled to see a beautiful young woman looking down at me from the wall. It was an oil portrait with an Egyptian scene in the background. Then I realized it was from an opera, Aida. I was in Señora Penelope Alfrenso’s bedroom!

  The whole room was covered in deep red silk, evoking elegance and authority, but also mystery and fear. All sorts of objects were placed on tables and shelves, neatly arranged but covered with dust, neglected. An abandoned room, once filled with love, warmth, and hope, once alive and vibrant, now forlorn.

  Set against the far wall was an elaborately layered canopy bed with matching pink embroidered pillows. I felt very sad as I let myself imagine the young, handsome Alfredo and Penelope frolicking on top of the bed, sometimes lovingly, other times playfully, back when they still had eyes only for each other.

  Next to the bed was a vanity with an elaborately gilded mirror. It was covered with perfume and cosmetic bottles, their contents long ago evaporated. There was a rack of lipsticks of different shades, now dull and cracked. A silver hairbrush and hand mirror set were tarnished to a dull black. Tortoise-shell combs were strewn about, with a few auburn hairs between the teeth.

  This was a woman who had clearly lived for beauty. A woman of taste and elegance, but also arrogance. Perhaps in a way it was better that she’d died young. I wondered how a woman like this would react when one day she looked in her mirror and saw the first wrinkle or white hair. Life is cruel to all, beautiful or not.

  I walked around, taking it all in—a chaise lounge for señora to take her nap, or read an opera score, or a fashion magazine. I wiped the dust off a framed photograph to see the prima donna herself, Señora Penelope Alfrenso, singing to a packed opera house, gloved hands raised, as if pleading for her life back. A woman who had everything—except a faithful husband.

  It was with a sense of melancholy that I looked around her intimate, private room. On a dresser were framed pictures showing Penelope at parties, wearing dramatic makeup, elaborate gowns, and opera costumes. A few were of Penelope in exotic places, with or without her husband. She appeared in attention-grabbing poses, displaying her décolletage, slouching with a cigarette in a long holder, leaning seductively on the hood of a luxury car. A woman with a life of high drama both on and off stage. A controlling woman for whom everything had to be perfect—but wasn’t.

  I was starting to feel dizzy. This room, exactly as it had been in the young woman’s last hours on earth, made her death seem like it had happened moments ago. Most distressing was a set of wineglasses on a silver tray. Both had a crimson residue on the bottom and one had a faint lipstick trace on the rim. It gave me an uncanny feeling, as if the woman were still somewhere in the castle, or perhaps in the room, bitter at the intrusion of another woman—me.

  23

  Secrets on a Tape

  As I continued to look around, I realized that this room had been Penelope’s private sanctuary, one her husband could most likely enter only at her invitation. Or perhaps she retreated here to live as a saint, after Alfredo had lost interest in her.

  Penelope had been rejected just like the out-of-favor concubines cast aside by the emperor to live in the lenggong, the “cold palace.” A lonely, empty life. An imperial concubine could never go home, because she remained the emperor’s property. And a celibate one, for no man would dare to love a woman who’d once been married to the emperor. She might even accept the gift of a white silk scarf with which to hang herself—if she was granted permission. The cold court was filled with these bitter concubines and their predecessors’ even more bitter ghosts. I wondered if the motorcycle had been Penelope’s substitute for the white scarf.

  Seeing all her possessions, looking ghostly themselves in their abandoned state, I reflected how, despite having so much, a person could still be desperately unhappy. Here was a woman, rich, famous, beautiful, with thousands of lavish possessions, yet unable to possess her husband’s heart.

  To me, this room full of no-longer-cared-for objects proved the cliché that you can’t take it with you. In the past, however, rich Chinese thought otherwise. They assumed that the more they possessed in this life, the more they could take to the next. The famous Lady Dai, now well past her 2,000th birthday, was found buried with over two hundred jade bracelets and other treasures.

  In China, the grave goods were provided to ensure that the deceased would have as good a “life” after death as before. This was not generosity on the part of the living, but rather fear that disgruntled ancestors would return to wreak havoc on them. Nor were the dead easily satisfied—the least slight might bring them back from hell to punish the living.

  When someone was sick or afflicted, it was assumed to be the work of ghosts. Of course, there was no easy way to know what would appease the deceased. So humans were employed to make otherworld journeys to ask the spirits what they wanted. If eve
n more offerings did not satisfy them, a black magician would be hired to cast spells to keep them from crossing into the yang world to bother the living.

  I sighed, thinking that relationships with the dead can be as difficult as those with the living. I wondered, had Alfredo done anything to appease the spirit of his deceased wife? If not, would she come back, asking for what was her due?

  My eyes landed on an elaborately carved box in a corner. I went up, opened it, and found myself staring at a stack of newspaper clippings. They were mostly reports and reviews of Penelope’s concerts, a few interviews and bits of gossip. Accompanying photographs showed the prima donna singing by a grand piano in front of a big orchestra, or doing an interview in her lavishly decorated music room. A few showed her and Alfredo smiling into the camera and looking happy. Who would have known that these were façades they put up for the public?

  None of the articles seemed to be of particular interest until I saw one with the title:

  OPERA SINGER PENELOPE ALFRENSO CATCHES HUSBAND WITH ANOTHER WOMAN

  Our beloved, beautiful, and talented opera singer Penelope Alfrenso’s marriage may be in trouble. More than ten years after her lavish wedding, she was shocked to discover that her husband, Alfredo Alfrenso, has been having an affair. But even worse for the famous prima donna, this third party is also a singer—in a shady cabaret!

  According to rumor, Penelope wants a divorce, but her husband adamantly refuses, his reason being that Catholics cannot divorce. Of course everyone knows a very generous donation to the church can lead to an annulment. Most likely, Señor Alfrenso just wants to hold on to his wife’s immense family fortune.

  Hmmm . . . interesting, Penelope had died tragically before she could start divorce proceedings. Upon her sudden death, Alfredo became the heir to her fortune. Hard to believe there wasn’t something fishy going on. I remembered Sabrina’s suspicion that Isabelle had been murdered by Alfredo. Was this refined man actually a serial killer? If he’d killed Isabelle to cover up his affair with her mother, he could have killed his wife as well. If he truly had his own money hidden somewhere in the castle, why would he kill for even more money? Then I thought of Ivan—for the greedy, no amount is ever enough.

  As I was currently staying in Alfredo’s castle, these thoughts were horrifying to me. I had no money that anyone would want to kill me for, but being under the same roof with a possible murderer was terrifying. He seemed a considerate man, but I hardly knew him.

  The rest of the newspaper clippings were of no interest, just glowing reviews of Penelope’s many performances. I put the clippings back and returned the box where I had found it. I did not want any trace of my visit because the state of the room suggested it was unchanged since the day of Penelope’s death. Either Alfredo wanted it left untouched so he could remember his wife as if she were still alive or he’d shut the door and never reentered the room, trying to forget her.

  I spotted another carved wooden box almost identical to the first one. When I opened it, I found a stack of letters inside. Despite feeling somewhat ashamed to be prying into someone’s most personal matters, I could not resist unfolding the first letter. Letters expressing someone else’s uninhibited expressions of affection are usually embarrassing, but reading these was even more uncomfortable since I knew their love had ended tragically.

  The first letter, from Alfredo, had none of the reserve he’d shown with me.

  How can I live without you? It was the grace of God that led me through the thorn-filled path of my life to happiness with the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. . . .

  As the days and years pass, like the mountains and the sea, my love for you will never change.

  Every day, I am happy, just thinking of you.

  Please, never doubt my undying love....

  It went on, but I felt poignantly how changeable is a man’s heart, so I stopped reading. Those letters written by Penelope, in contrast, seemed to express an undertone of anxiety.

  I never hoped to meet anyone like you. You are handsome, courteous, and give me a love that is truly rare on this earth.

  I hope you won’t let me down, that we’ll hold hands and watch the sunset till our hair turns white.

  I know that the bloom of my youth and life will eventually fade and the fresh colors turn to gray. If you truly love me, I will feel young even into eternity.

  From Alfredo’s declarations, it seemed that he truly loved Penelope, at least in the beginning, but it was not impossible that his flowery words were intended to conceal his real interest—her money. After reading these bits of the love letters, I wanted to leave. I had shared enough suffering with Alfredo’s wife. But then I spied one last chest, obviously antique, perhaps a treasure of Penelope’s family. This object seemed to stand out in its significance, almost as if Penelope was somehow wanting me to notice it.

  I felt myself slipping into my altered state as I walked over and opened it. Inside was a cassette tape and a small player. I had a sensation of another hand taking mine and guiding it to pick up the cassette. I searched for an outlet and saw one on the wall right next to the chest. To my surprise, the dusty cassette player came to life as I plugged it in. I inserted the tape and pressed the play button.

  After a brief interval, a high-pitched, resonant voice began singing an aria from Madame Butterfly. I turned down the volume just in case, even though Maria was unlikely to wake up anytime soon. Despite the low quality of the tape player, I could hear the passion and nuances of the singer’s unfulfilled love. After the aria finished, the tape went silent. I would have liked to hear more of Penelope’s voice, but this strong sense of the dead woman’s presence gave me a queasy feeling.

  Whether it was the leftover effects of the wine I had consumed or my overwhelming emotions, I could not tell, but I felt myself drifting off into sleep. I turned off the tape and sank down onto the chaise lounge. I realized it was not sleep but the same sensation I’d felt at Past Life Lake and also in Uncle Wang’s temple. My limbs felt as if they were melting as my consciousness seemed to leave my body.

  This time, instead of the sensation of being underwater, it was as if I were sinking into the cold earth. Frightened, I imagined I would be forever trapped in this tomblike room. I sensed an uncountable number of people who had also been trapped here long ago. Despite my drowsiness, I seemed to hear a voice like that of Penelope on the recording I had just listened to.

  I strained to hear her words, but they were muted by the earth surrounding us. I sensed a beautiful face in front of me, but unlike her portrait, she bore an expression of inconsolable grief.

  “Are you Penelope?” I asked, voice trembling.

  She nodded.

  “You still live in this room?”

  This time she spoke, her voice soft yet powerful. “This is my home, my room.”

  This was quite scary and now I regretted having entered her room. But I could not move, so I just asked, “How did you die?”

  “You already know—of a broken heart.”

  “How is it over there?”

  “It’s cold, especially without my husband to embrace and warm me.”

  I felt a shudder, thinking of those ill-fated concubines withering in the cold palace.

  She stared into my eyes with her doleful, long-lashed ones. “You must do something for me.”

  “Just ask.”

  I hoped she wouldn’t, like Isabelle, ask me to find who’d killed her. One death was more than enough for me to handle. Even with my yin eye opened.

  But her request both surprised and saddened me. “Please make a paper boat, write my name on it, and set it out onto the sea.”

  Since we were on an island, this wouldn’t be hard for me.

  As if she’d read my thoughts, she said, her voice cracking, “I mean the underworld sea between the two realms.”

  “Why do you want me to do this?”

  “It is my only hope to reach my husband, so I’ll be with him, at least in spirit.”

>   So in spite of everything, she still loved her husband and wanted to be with him, even after death.

  “I’ll certainly do that. But where are you now?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you. It’s too horrible. Also please help me find an evil woman.”

  “Who?”

  “The witch who helped the prostitute steal my husband, then took him for herself.”

  First a ghost appears and then she asks about witches. I was beginning to doubt my sanity.

  “Her name was Nathalia, but I think later she changed it to Cecily,” said the apparition.

  Cecily? Either she meant the witch I knew or I was really crazy. But still, what was happening seemed real, so I went along, asking, “What do you want me to do after I’ve found her?”

  Instead of answering she suddenly vanished into the mirror just as she’d appeared—from nowhere.

  24

  There Is Always One Near You

  I didn’t know which was more frightening, Penelope appearing or her disappearing. Either way was enough for me. Once she vanished I was able to move my limbs again and I bolted to my room. Back on my own bed, I felt some relief, though I was still in a cold sweat from the “unclean” visitation. I muttered a prayer for protection, then tried to remember everything Penelope had said to me, lest it vanish from my mind like a dream.

  Paradoxically, I felt deeply touched by Penelope’s attachment to Alfredo, despite his betrayal. Even in hell, she still wanted me to make a paper boat, write her name on it, and set it out on the underworld sea so she could cross from the yin world to visit her husband. For all her arrogance, the prima donna had at least one noble quality—she truly loved her husband.

  What to make of what a ghost tells you in a dream? If it was a dream. But if not, what? Anyway, it did explain some things—like Cecily being Nathalia, or vice versa.