by Mingmei Yip
“Good. You can come back for a chat with me anytime. But don’t come back for another channeling.” He stared at me to see my response.
“But why not?”
“Most cross the boundary between the realms of life and death but twice—at birth and at death. To do so more will severely damage your body and mind, or take years off your earthly life. You are young; enjoy the life of this world and forget the next for now.
“Señorita Chen, you’re a brave woman to come to this remote island by yourself. I know you seek truth with great determination and stubbornness. But even the strong have weak moments. The evil wait for these moments to drag you down.
“Let me tell you a true story. Many years ago there was a man—let’s call him Señor Ho—who claimed to possess the yin eye and boasted about the spirits he saw. No one knew if he made it all up or if he really did see those unclean things. He fell sick, but one day, feeling better, he went to see his friend.
“He got into a taxi and saw a puny man sitting in front next to the driver. He thought to ask the driver to let off the other passenger, but decided against it because the driver was speeding and looked ferocious. Señor Ho feared that the man was the driver’s friend, and that if he complained, the driver might spite him by speeding even more and endangering everyone’s lives.
“When the taxi pulled to a stop at Ho’s destination, he finally chided the driver, telling him it’s against the law to take another passenger when he was the one who paid.
“The driver looked completely shocked. ‘Señor, what are you talking about? There’s only you and I in the car! You’re the only customer—of course you pay the whole amount!
“Then Ho realized something terrifying: The extra passenger was not a human. Though the driver didn’t have the yin eye to see it, he was nevertheless affected by the creature—who had caused his crazy, reckless driving. Ho didn’t go meet his friend, but turned back to go home—this time by bus, because the other people would provide protective yang qi.
“Once home, Ho immediately knelt in front of Zhong Kui, the Chinese ghost queller. Ho burned incense and made offerings of tea, wine, and food. Then he muttered a prayer, asking for the invincible hero’s protection.”
“What happened to Señor Ho? Did he die of fright?”
“Ho was fine, but he was extra careful to avoid getting sick. When one is healthy, one possesses abundant yang energy, so the spirits can’t cause trouble, because they are yin. They’ll pick another victim, a sick and weak one.”
When finished, Uncle Wang asked, “Señorita Chen, you understand why I told you this story?”
I shook my head.
He continued. “Because you don’t look very well, my friend. I’m sure you’re not sick like the man I told you about. But you’ve had many spirit visits lately and, even though you are young and strong, you cannot help but absorb some of their yin energy.”
“But the spirits have told me about important matters—they wanted my help.”
“Sometimes knowing too much is not a good thing, even for a professor. Save your help for the living. You understand?”
I thought I did, so this time I nodded.
As soon as I was by myself back in my hotel room, I said out loud, “It was Penelope all along! She killed Isabelle, not Alfredo.” I struggled to rearrange my thoughts, having been thinking that maybe it was Alfredo.
Suddenly everything seemed to fall into place. In the temple I’d invited Isabelle to come to me, but it was not her presence that I felt. Penelope must have pushed Isabelle aside so she could approach me instead. She’d tried to shut Isabelle out of her husband’s life, and now she was trying to shut her out of mine as well, by pushing her back to the underworld. A heartless woman, both in this world and the next.
Given that Penelope had committed this terrible crime, her motive remained obscure to me. If it was jealousy, why hadn’t she killed Sabrina instead? Perhaps she felt the younger woman would become a greater threat. And what about her own death—was it an accident, suicide, or murder?
I could go back to try to channel her again. But there was Uncle Wang’s warning and I sensed he was right. As I stared at the blank wall of my little room, I realized that gratifying my curiosity was not worth another visit from the other world. I wanted to be done with the dead and go back to living my own life. Maybe the dead really are bitter, but I’d done as much as I could to solve their problems.
And even if I channeled again, how could I tell what was the truth? Ghosts were once human and probably as likely to lie. And what about if the three parties involved—Penelope, Isabelle, and Sabrina—all came to the altar at once and had a big quarrel? How do you settle an argument between ghosts? Would they kill each other in front of me and die all over again?
33
Hidden Treasures
I was not done with death; I’ve learned that one never is. Although I was done with channeling the dead, I could still question the living, that is, Alfredo. After that, I hoped I could put all of the mysteries behind me and go back to the U.S.
When I called Maria to let her know of my impending visit, I was dismayed to hear her say, “Very bad news, Señorita Eileen. . . .”
“What happened? Did Señor Alfrenso . . .” I couldn’t finish.
“He had a heart attack. This time it doesn’t look good.”
“Where he is now? I’ll be right there.”
“Hospiten Sur here on Tenerife. It’s very close to the bus routes, but please don’t waste time; take a taxi or hire a car. I’m with him now. I’m sure he’ll feel great comfort seeing you.”
“Don’t worry, Maria. Tell him to hang in there.”
In less than an hour, I was in the lobby of the hospital, asking for Alfredo Alfrenso’s room. The instant I saw him, I sensed that this time death was not far away. His voice was faint and his hands plucked ineffectually at the sheets. As soon as Maria spotted me, she shook her head and pulled me outside the room.
“Señorita Eileen,” she said in a heated whisper, “I’m so glad that you’re here. Señor has been calling your name, asking for you.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Not well. Not well at all. The doctor says this time it would take a miracle for him to recover. Even if he does, he will be very weak. I can’t imagine—Señor is so strong and proud.”
Maria started to cry. I put my arm around her shoulder.
“Maria, let’s not give up hope. We just have to take very good care of him. What else did the doctor say?”
“Just that his heart cannot pump his blood properly. The medicines will help, but only a little.”
If Maria was going to lose her calm, I could not. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Now we need to stay strong for señor so we can help him recover, okay?”
She nodded, wiping her tears.
Back inside the room, I went up to Alfredo’s bedside. Close up, my friend looked even worse. My heart sank. Now, instead of a late-fiftyish man, he looked like an octogenarian, almost as old as Uncle Wang, though without the older man’s spirit and energy.
Alfredo looked as if he were about to enter the underworld, or was almost there already. Under the bedsheet his body, so recently big and powerful, looked like a sick child’s. His cheeks were so sunken that I believed if I put water there, it’d stay. His hands, once fleshy like a bear’s paws, were now skeletal claws. For the first time, I noticed that his pinky was slanted, just like Juan’s, proving now that the unfortunate young man whom he’d refused to acknowledge was indeed his son.
Just then Alfredo opened his eyes. When he saw me, his face lit up with a half smile. I hid my tears as he reached up to touch my face. I held on to his wrist, feeling his pulse, as weak as a kitten’s.
“Alfredo, how are you feeling?” I asked, my question as limp as his hand. How could he feel except horrible and pathetic?
He tried to speak but coughed instead. Maria immediately held out a glass of water and helped him sip.
�
�Alfredo, maybe you shouldn’t talk.... You need rest.”
“Soon I’ll have my eternal sleep.”
“Alfredo, I’m so sorry how you feel. But please don’t say unlucky things like this. . . .” I stopped, not knowing what more to say.
His voice faded like incense smoke. “Eileen, thank you so much for coming. You’re a good woman.”
He rolled his head toward me and stared at me with sad eyes.
I leaned toward the housekeeper, and whispered, “I think señor wants some words with me in private.”
Maria left, obedient as ever, and I turned to the sick man. “Alfredo, I’m here to care for you. Maria too. Just concentrate on getting better.”
Another well-intended but meaningless sentiment.
My friend shook his head. “Eileen . . .” He sighed. “You really think that I’ll . . . recover?”
I had no choice but to lie. “Yes, of course. See how well you did last time?”
“I appreciate your encouragement, but this time is different; I’m not going to make it.”
I shook my head.
“You’re a good person, Eileen.”
“Not everyone is evil in this world, Alfredo. Most are good.”
“But I’m not. I harmed a lot of people on my way up. I cheated on Penelope with a prostitute and a witch. This is my punishment.”
“Don’t worry about that now. What’s done is done.”
“Don’t you think it’s too late to make amends for my bad deeds?”
According to Chinese culture, a person’s life span and deeds are all recorded in the Book of Life and Death by the King of Hell, who decides life and death. What we did, good or bad, in each of our lives is set down in detail. The time of everyone’s demise is prerecorded in this terrible book. Our allotment of years is set by what we did in our previous lives. To live longer, we should look in a karmic mirror and discover our past bad deeds, then try to neutralize them by doing good in this life. Then the King of Hell might cross out your original death date and write in a later one.
But it seemed that Alfredo’s chance for redemption was slipping away with each beat of his damaged heart. There were no postponements. As the Chinese say, “If the King of Hell wants you to be present at two in the morning, he’s not going to wait until three.”
But of course I did not recount these gloomy Chinese beliefs to him.
Alfredo’s faint voice woke me from my reverie.
“Eileen, I need to tell you something and I have very little time. Please listen very carefully. You must also promise never to tell anyone what I am about to tell you. Keep it to yourself to the grave. Can you promise?”
I nodded, then blurted out before I could stop myself, “Are you going to tell me that Penelope killed Isabelle?”
My friend looked so shocked and disturbed that his sunken eyes rounded like two huge coins, his irises gold-flecked, ironically mimicking his life’s pursuit of wealth.
“How did you know?” he exclaimed as if he’d just run into a ghost.
“I had a chat with Penelope.”
Now he looked like he’d just been hit by lightning. “How? Please don’t joke; my unlucky wife has been gone for many years!”
“I spoke to her ghost.”
“Eileen, please!”
“Alfredo, it’s my third eye. I think I told you, since I was at Past Life Lake, I can see things, things normal eyes can’t see.
“You may think I’m crazy, but I went to the old Daoist Luminous Spirit Temple on Grand Canary and channeled someone. She seemed to be Penelope and she confessed.”
He didn’t reply at first but looked even more miserable. Then he nodded weakly. “So you figured it out.”
“How come you didn’t do anything, like tell the police?”
It took a while for him to speak, his voice pained. “The police did come—I bribed them to cover up the whole thing.”
“Then what about Penelope? She killed herself out of guilt—or maybe it was Isabelle’s vengeful ghost?”
Alfredo looked totally exhausted by my questions. “You’re really psychic, aren’t you?”
“When Penelope died, you inherited everything, didn’t you?”
“It’s my fault in a way. She found out about me and Sabrina, then Isabelle. It was because of Isabelle that she took off on the motorcycle. What else have you ‘seen’?”
“That’s it. Don’t worry, Alfredo, I won’t use my power anymore. It might shorten my life to keep using my yin vision. At first I didn’t believe in my own power, but then when I tested it, it told me the truth. Sabrina believed you killed her daughter and I have to admit that I believed her at first. But you didn’t seem like a murderer to me. It was only when I channeled Isabelle and Penelope came instead that I knew for sure.
“I judged you wrongly and I am very sorry. You’ve been nice to me, Alfredo. I could have been hurt by the witches had you not taken me in your castle and had Maria care for me.”
“Why would Sabrina think that I killed her daughter?”
“She said that Isabelle threatened to expose your illegal arms dealings unless you gave her money. Is that right?”
“Since you know so much, I might as well tell you everything. . . .”
He sighed, then took a few labored deep breaths before continuing. “Yes, I’ve hidden a big hoard of cash and gold in my castle. Let me tell you where.”
“It’s best not to tell me, Alfredo.”
He looked at me curiously. “You’re really one strange woman. Most women would jump into my bed—or now my deathbed—just to get this information. And you don’t want to know. Why?”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with illegal money. And I don’t want to deal with the police!”
“No need to worry about that.”
“Why not?”
“Because the police are my friends. The best kind of friends, the ones you pay. Besides, when money is illegal, it’s because the government can’t get its hands on it. Governments are the biggest gangsters. You think what they do is legal? Only because they make the laws, you understand?”
It made sense, though I’d never thought of it this way. But it wouldn’t help with the police to tell them that they were gangsters.
“No one cares about Penelope or Isabelle. After all these years, they’re like out-of-print books. But I want to tell you where my treasure is because I want you to have some. It’s under a floor panel, beneath the grand piano in the music room. There are several thick piles of musical scores. The loose panel is under the Wagner pile. I picked that because no one in Spain cares for Wagner but me.
“But there’s more under Past Life Lake . . .” he quickly added.
“Past Life Lake?! But it’s haunted!”
“That’s exactly why I put it there. No one will dare to look for it.”
“How did you put the treasures under the lake?”
He took a slow sip of the water, then went on. “I used my connections in the arms trade. It was expensive, but completely secure. A company that makes missiles placed everything in thick steel barrels with noncorrosive coating and welded the tops onto them. There is a hidden lever that opens them, but only I know how to do it.”
He laughed a little. “Of course I watched the entire process. The barrels were smuggled here in a fishing trawler, and I paid a team of divers from France to bury them in the lake bottom. . . .”
I couldn’t quite follow the technical details, but I let him finish his boasting, then quickly asked, “You weren’t afraid your hired help would dive to Past Life Lake to steal the treasure?”
He shook his head, letting out a chuckle. “Hell no! I told the divers that the canisters were filled with nuclear waste that I had been paid to hide. That way, they wouldn’t dare try to open them.
“It’s evil money and if anyone goes after it, they’ll be buried along with the wages of my sin. Maybe a hundred years from now the lake will dry up and the treasure will be found. The paper money will be w
orthless, but the gold will hold its value. So, one day it might be used to do good. If so, perhaps I’ll attain redemption—a century or so from now.”
We remained silent each in our own way contemplating this strange turn of events.
Finally, he spoke. “I told Isabelle about this and the poor innocent girl, having no idea what it’d involve, went to dive there. So she was a victim of her own greed.”
I suspected that Isabelle was more needy than greedy.
“So, did Penelope kill Isabelle or was she drowned trying to get the treasures?”
“I’d say both.”
Maybe that was the truth. As the Chinese say: “People die for money, birds die for food.”
A long story and depressing from beginning to end. Greed, stupidity, and maliciousness—an unholy trinity.
“Why have you told me all this, Alfredo?”
“I have no one to whom to pass on my wealth. You have been good to me, even despite your suspicions. Of course there’s no way you could get the treasures in the lake. But you can take those under the piano.”
“But you have Juan, your son!”
“My son?” He looked unbearably sad. “Why was it him instead of Luis?”
Then I suddenly remembered something. “Did you ever get Luis’s DNA tested?”
He nodded. “My lawyer took the toothbrush to be tested in a lab. Luis’s DNA doesn’t match mine, so it must be Juan. A retarded son, how cruel is fate. Anyway, even if I give Juan all my money, what could he use it for? He’d be cheated out of it in no time. ”
I had nothing to suggest. Juan would always be dependent on the kindness of others, never a sure thing.
“Where is he now?”
“He’s in good hands. Father Fernando took him back to Spain. But if you want his address, let me know.”
He went on. “Now listen. The money—”
I interrupted. “Please, Alfredo, I don’t want anything to do with your finances!”
“You won’t, not if you just inherit. Anyway, I’ve recently changed my will. You’ll get five percent, Maria will get some, and the rest will go to the church to use for the poor. You can get what’s under the piano, but swear to me that you will not go after the treasures under the lake. Too many women have died there already.”