“I’m glad. How do you mean?”
Instead of answering, Lady Jia says, “What did Min like about the south?”
“She loved the weather, the scenery. She liked being able to see the places she’d read about in ancient poems. She loved it when my father would take us boating on Tai Lake, because it reminded her of that poem by—”
“How like her!” Granny Jia bursts out. “Always caring more about some old poem, instead of what was right before her eyes. That was the only reason she wanted to marry your father in the first place. Do you think he was the only one who wanted to marry her? She could have married General Xue Ke, the Area Commandant for Chang’an!”
She hears the sarcasm in Granny’s voice, but does not understand it. “Xue? Is he related to Baochai?”
“All the powerful families are related to each other. I was so pleased when he sent a matchmaker. She would have married him, but then your father had the nerve to send a matchmaker. He placed third in the whole country in the Triennial Exams; but he had no money, and the Lins were all but dying out. On top of that, he was posted to go south.”
“Then what happened?”
“She wouldn’t have Xue Ke. She wanted to marry Lin Ruhai! Why?” Lady Jia answers her own question. “His poems! It was Zheng’s fault. Some of Lin’s poems were enjoying a little vogue. Zheng had copied them onto a fan, and Min had read them.”
“His poems,” Daiyu echoes, glad that the darkness hides her smile. So her parents, without meeting, had recognized each other through the medium of poetry. She had always known that what was between her father and mother was something sweeter and more intimate than the sense of duty and shared interests that seemed to unite other married couples.
“I swore that if she disobeyed me and married Lin, I would never speak to her again.” Granny’s words strike Daiyu like stones. “I kept my word. I didn’t go to the wedding feast. And I never wrote a word to her in twenty years.
“Oh, I knew that she wrote to her father when he was alive. That was how I knew she had you, and a little boy, who died. But until she wrote Zheng, to tell him that she was dying, I never wrote a word to her. Then I wrote to tell her to send you up here, so I could see you.”
Daiyu suddenly feels that she is in the presence of an enemy, this woman who forced her mother to choose between marrying the man she loved and her own family. She remembers what her mother had said before she died. Had she come to regret her choice, the long estrangement? She pictures her mother as a young woman, in silks like the ones Daiyu now wears, with her phoenix tiara on her sleek hair. That young woman had never swept a floor, never washed a dish. How could being with Daiyu’s father have made up for the life of ease she had lost? Then, with a desperate effort, her mind leaps back beyond her mother’s illness to recall the unshadowed period before: Her mother holding on to the side of a punt as the wind whipped her hair out of its knot, laughing as Daiyu’s father boosted her to reach a high-hanging peach. Even if she had felt a twinge of regret at the end, Daiyu cannot believe that she wasn’t happy for all those years.
Granny Jia breaks the long silence. “The climate down there killed her.”
Her mother is dead. Why does Granny still need to prove herself right? “That’s not true.”
The old woman struggles to a seated position. A dim shaft of light falls onto her face. Her black eyes shine like prunes from their sunken recesses. “Everyone knows the climate down there brings on all sorts of fevers—”
“It isn’t true!” Daiyu has an urge to shake her grandmother. She clutches her hands together in her lap. After all, she has been sent here by her mother in an attempt to patch over the long estrangement. But how can she patch it over when her grandmother’s anger is still blazing?
PART TWO
Eleventh Month, 1721
Everyone said that the South would be fine,
But the years slipped away till I was old in the South:
Springtime waters bluer than sky,
I drift to sleep in the rain.
A woman like the moon beside the stove,
Her wrists gleam like snow.
Never go home till you’re old,
For your heart will surely break.
Wei Zhuang, song lyric to the tune
“Boddhisatva Barbarian”
1
At the beginning of the Eleventh Month, word finally comes from Daiyu’s father. The letter is addressed not to her, but to Uncle Zheng. All it says is that he, Daiyu’s father, is ill, and will they send Daiyu home to him as soon as possible. She stares at the letter, trying to extract more meaning from its brief lines. Is his illness serious? Or does he merely want Daiyu with him when he is not feeling well? She runs her fingers over the handwriting. There is no evidence of shaking, or weakness. She imagines her father writing it, bent over his desk in the corner of the front room, the desk so worn that the varnish has come off in spots and she could feel the smooth grain of the walnut with her fingers.
It is settled that she will set out the following morning accompanied by Jia Lian. Originally, Lady Jia proposed sending her in the care of some senior stewardesses. Jia Zheng objected that it was neither proper nor safe to send her with servants alone. Moreover, he wished Lian to visit the family’s farms in the south. For the first time in as long as anyone can remember, the harvest was so meager that Xifeng will have to buy rice to keep the household fed. Daiyu feels shy of taking a long journey with Lian, whom she has hardly spoken to. She fears he will resent having to leave Rongguo with Ping’er pregnant. However, Uncle Zheng, ignoring Daiyu’s protests, had dispatched Lian, complaining bitterly, to the docks that very morning to hire a barge for their journey south.
In her bedroom before her empty trunk, she stares at the tangle of gowns and jackets as if they belong to someone else.
Snowgoose comes in and begins to sort through the clothes. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow at dawn.”
“What did your father’s letter say?”
“Barely anything. That’s what makes me scared. Just that he was sick, and that I should come back.”
Snowgoose takes Daiyu’s cold hand in her warm one. “Well, you said you wanted to go home.”
Mrs. Xue and Baochai come. Mrs. Xue puts her arms around Daiyu. “We just heard about your father. You poor dear.”
Daiyu has an urge to let herself be held in that soft embrace, to burst into tears in the shelter of Mrs. Xue’s arms—but another voice warns her not to let herself go, to steel herself for what is ahead. She stands stiff and dry-eyed.
“We brought you something.” Baochai opens a small paper parcel. It is filled with the largest ginseng roots that Daiyu has ever seen, as thick as her thumb. “These days, unless you have special connections, all you can get are those skinny little rootlets, ‘whiskers,’ they call them. We were only able to get these because my father was friends with the Imperial Physician years ago.”
Daiyu shakes her head. “They’re too valuable. Besides, I don’t even know what kind of sickness my father has.”
“Ginseng is good for almost all sicknesses, because it strengthens the qi.”
“No, keep them for yourselves. What if one of you should become ill?”
Baochai gently forces Daiyu’s fingers around the parcel. “You take them. They’ll lose their strength if we keep them too long. Granny had some, even thicker than these, from when she was a girl, but they crumbled into dust the instant she touched them.
“Also,” she speaks over Daiyu’s attempt to thank her, “your lungs aren’t as strong as they should be. I hear you coughing at night a lot. If you don’t strengthen them now, when you are young, they will get worse as you grow older. These are bird’s nests. You should stew one of these every morning.”
Smiling at Baochai’s tone of authority, Daiyu accepts the second package. In the three months she has lived side by side with Baochai, she has come to understand how the older girl conceals her emotions beneath her bossy
manner. It is too hard for her to reveal her vulnerability through a tender gesture or word. Weeks ago, when Daiyu poured out the story of Granny’s anger towards her mother, Baochai had looked shocked but didn’t say a word of commiseration. Daiyu had been hurt and angry, resolving never to confide in her. Then, remembering Baochai’s thoughtfulness and generosity, she tried once more to draw closer to her. Now she wonders if they will ever see each other again. She takes Baochai’s hand. “Don’t you think that you and Aunt Xue will come south to visit your relatives sometime? You must be sure to come and see me.”
Baochai’s fingers return the pressure of her own. “Of course.”
Xifeng enters with her arms full of clothes. Daiyu has never overcome her initial dislike of Xifeng, with her patronizing air, her brittle gaiety. Now, as Xifeng spreads the fur-lined jacket and red camlet cape on the kang, Daiyu sees that they show signs of wear.
“These are your things, aren’t they?” she asks in surprise. Xifeng’s offer of her own clothing seems an act of generosity and not condescension. “Are you sure you can spare them?”
“Good Heavens, do you think I’ll ever get a chance to travel?” Xifeng laughs. “Now, tell me, do you need any medicines, or anything else for your journey? Come now, I hope you don’t feel shy anymore, after being with us so long.”
“No, thank you. Auntie Xue and Baochai have given me all I need.”
“Then let me give you a piece of advice, even though you haven’t asked for it.” Xifeng’s voice is missing the tone of faintly superior mockery she often adopts when speaking to the unmarried girls. “When you get back to Suzhou to nurse your father, everything will be clamoring for your attention. You’ll be tempted to sacrifice yourself to get all of it done. But remember: Get enough sleep. Eat properly. Everyone forgets the nurse, but you are the one on whom everyone depends.” Her face, with its brilliant, dramatically lined eyes, holds a mixture of shrewdness and kindness.
Daiyu understands. When she returns to Suzhou she will be carrying the weight of the household on her own. For the first time she takes Xifeng’s hand of her own accord. “Thank you,” she says. “I will remember.”
After naptime, Xifeng rapidly sorts through Lian’s tunics and undertrousers for his trip. The suddenness of the departure has thrown the whole household, already strained by preparations for New Year’s, into disorder. She will probably have to stay up all night to get Lian’s luggage ready. Ping’er might lend a hand, of course, but she spends her days in bed, claiming morning sickness. When Lian told them about the trip, Ping’er had actually burst into tears. Somehow to Xifeng this seemed the measure of her alienation from her maid. Even at the best of times, she could never have imagined being so upset by Lian’s absence. Now she considers it a rare stroke of luck that Uncle Zheng is sending him away, so that she will be spared having to see the way he and Ping’er cling to each other.
Autumn comes in. “The Abbess from the Water Moon Priory is here to see you.”
“What does she want?” Xifeng asks, annoyed at being interrupted.
“I don’t know.”
Xifeng hesitates. The Water Moon Priory, one of the largest temples in the Capital area, is frequented by noblewomen and officials’ wives. The Abbess is an important personage, and an excellent source of gossip and political news.
“Very well. I’ll see her.”
She suppresses a shudder of distaste when she sees the coarse black stubble dotting the Abbess’s shaved head, and her fleshy, asexual body in her shapeless gray robes. “Ah, my dear Abbess. How kind of you to come.”
“Of course.” The Abbess’s broad face crinkles into a smile. “I only regret that I am not able to come oftener. How are you keeping?”
“I am well, thank you.” She leads the Abbess to the kang, looking around for Autumn to serve tea. To her annoyance, Autumn is nowhere to be seen. She is about to call for the maid when the Abbess waves her hands.
“I just had tea at Lady Jia’s.” She pats the kang beside her. “We’ll sit and have a cozy chat, just you and me.” Her eyes twinkle at Xifeng between folds of fat. “Lady Jia told me the wonderful news.” She is referring to Ping’er’s baby, of course. “When is the happy event?”
“At the beginning of the Fourth Month.”
“The baby will be born in the Year of the Tiger! What a piece of good fortune for the whole family.” The Abbess nods and smiles, but her eyes tell Xifeng that she understands very well that it is far from good luck for Xifeng.
“Well,” the Abbess continues, “I know you are always so busy, so I’ll get straight to the point. You can probably guess what I’ve come for.” She folds her plump white hands in her lap. “Every year before New Year’s I ask all the important ladies in the Capital to contribute a little for oil, to keep the lamps in front of our Blessed Lady Guanyin burning all the year round—”
“Oh, yes!” Xifeng jumps up. “I’d completely forgotten.” She hurries to her bedroom, opens the box where she keeps her small cash, and quickly wraps up fifty taels of silver, almost everything in the box. She returns to the Abbess with the money. “Here you are. Thank you for reminding me. It completely slipped my mind this year.” She knows it is a strange incongruity in her, which others, including Lian, have remarked on: even though she is hardheaded to the point of stinginess when it comes to buying and selling, when it comes to religion, she is so generous that she has never let a single monk, no matter how disreputable, leave the mansion empty-handed. And Lady Guanyin, the goddess of mercy, with her remote yet gentle face and snow-white robes, has always been her favorite.
The Abbess climbs off the kang, nodding and chuckling. “That’s just like you, Mrs. Lian. Always so generous. May you receive blessings in your next life for your kindness.”
The Abbess is just offering Xifeng a farewell benediction when she adds, as if an afterthought, “Oh, yes, there was one more thing I wanted to talk to you about.”
Her casualness strikes Xifeng as calculated. “What is it?”
“The Countess of Xiping came out to the temple the other day to burn some incense for her little son, who is sick.” The Abbess leans closer to Xifeng. “She happened to mention that she was a little short of cash, and was looking for a loan …”
Xifeng lowers her eyes to hide her excitement. Ever since coming to Rongguo, she has been looking to make a little money of her own. She knows, even if everyone else chooses to ignore the fact, that every year the household’s expenditures outstrip its income. The Jias’ wealth, as enormous as it is, is slowly being whittled away by their extravagance, the dishonesty of their servants, and the mismanagement of their estates. She had long suspected the stewards overseeing the farms in the south of siphoning off profits for themselves. She knew also that the Jias had been putting off maintenance and repairs of the irrigation system and farm buildings for years. She alone had not been surprised at the meagerness of this year’s harvest. Having no faith in Uncle Zheng’s and Lian’s ability to set matters right, she has squirreled away four or five hundred taels, so she can feel secure if anything happens; but she knows that she will never make real money by saving alone. She needs to find a way to invest her capital.
“Really?” she says, hoping that her eagerness does not betray itself in her voice.
“Yes. She wants to buy a promotion for her oldest son.”
Xifeng knows the Countess of Xiping slightly. She had been a contemporary of Xifeng’s mother-in-law, and when Lady Xing was alive, the Countess had come to Rongguo several times for holidays or birthday parties. Xifeng remembers her as a woman in her late thirties or forties, who insisted on wearing the rouged lips and butterfly silks of a young girl. She had given birth to a son the first year or two after her marriage, but then had not been able to conceive again until quite suddenly, nearly twenty years after her first child, she gave birth to a second son. “I see. How much does she want?”
“Two thousand taels.”
“For how long?”
“A month
or two.”
Xifeng calculates rapidly. In a few days the rents from the Jias’ properties in the Capital will come in. Usually she uses these to pay the allowances on the first of the month, and spends the rest on food for the kitchens and other operating expenses. She can lend the rent money to the Countess, and then pay the allowances and kitchen expenses out of her own money. If she falls short, she will divert some money from one of the other accounts—for instance, the money she has been putting aside for the Two Springs’ dowries—for the time being. It will be difficult, because of all the expenses for the New Year’s celebrations coming up, but she will put off nonessential purchases.
“There is one more thing,” the Abbess continues, when Xifeng says nothing. “It has to be kept very quiet. If her husband ever got to know of it …”
Xifeng wonders why the loan must be kept secret. In her own case, she does not want Lian to know of it, because he would try to claim a share of her profit. But why wouldn’t the Countess’s husband wish to pay for their son’s promotion as well? The Countess must have spent the money meant for the promotion elsewhere, and is trying to conceal this fact from her husband. “Naturally.”
She says nothing more. She wants the Abbess to make the request for a loan directly, in order to make it perfectly clear who is asking the favor, and who is granting it.
“Well, Mrs. Lian,” the Abbess says at last. “Do you think you can help her?”
“That all depends. What about interest?”
“She is willing to pay interest, of course.”
Xifeng gives a sigh of barely suppressed impatience. “Did she suppose that she could get a loan of that size without interest? It’s all a matter of how much.”
“Why, how much do you want, Mrs. Lian?”
If she is going to put herself through so much risk and trouble, she had better make it worth her while. “Ten percent a month,” she says recklessly.
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