Journey across the Four Seas: A Chinese Woman's Search for Home

by Li, Veronica

  We went by boat to Swatow. It was a port in southern China from which many generations of my father’s people had set sail. They’d journeyed to many places, trading in rice, herbs, precious metals, and whatever was profitable. If you went to Bangkok and mentioned the Li family of Swatow, people would tell you that this clan was among the earliest Chinese traders to set foot on Thailand. Some of them had taken local women for wives. Their progeny, all trained to be shrewd businessmen, soon founded a commercial empire that reached into every sphere of the Thai economy.

  A small crowd was waiting as we landed in Swatow. I remember being presented to a woman whom I was told to call Mother. Instinctively I knew there was something wrong. I glared at her with my lips sealed, and to my surprise, my mother didn’t force me to open them. A person of the older generation was always addressed as an aunt or uncle, but I’d never been told to address anyone as Mother except my own. This woman, too, had four children, and they were staggered in age with the four borne by my mother. It took me a while, but by the end of my stay I understood that this woman was my father’s first wife and her children were my half brothers and sisters.

  I stayed at the house of Fifteenth Uncle. He was Father’s next-in-line brother and the third of four sons. In the hierarchy of the extended family, however, he ranked fifteenth among all the boys of his generation. In the Chinese society of those days, the extended family was the one that mattered, making a cousin as close as a brother. I remember this uncle distinctly because of his eldest son, Crooked Mouth. An illness had twisted his mouth, and I couldn’t help but gawk as he talked and ate from one side of his face. He was around ten, too old to be my playmate, and yet I followed him around like a lost kitten. I don’t know why he fascinated me so much. Maybe it was because I felt sorry for him, which made me forget to feel sorry for myself. Too many people were coming up to me, sighing and petting me on the head. Some even had tears in their eyes.

  Normally, I wouldn’t dare cry in front of Mother, who believed that crying brought bad luck to the family. But when I saw her convulsing with sobs during the ceremony, I took it as my license to open the floodgates. Instead of getting a scolding, I received praises for being a loyal and loving daughter.

  I watched with curiosity the goings-on of the memorial. Monks circled the altar, chanting like one person singing in many voices. Their heads were shaved like little boys’, and as they moved around, their yellow robes rose and fell like waves. People filed in, bowing to Father’s portrait and shaking incense at him. When my turn came, Mother nudged me toward the altar. She’d taught me what to do: clasp the incense in both hands, away from my eyes, and make three deep bows. But as I stood in front of the altar, her instructions left me.

  Father’s eyes gripped mine. The chanting and wailing faded into the distance. Father and I were the only people in the room. We were face to face, chatting quietly. I told him I wanted to touch him—his open face, strong square jaws, and shock of black hair. He said he wanted to touch me too; it had been a long time since he’d done that. I told him to come back from Bangkok, or Shanghai, or wherever he was. He thought about it for a while. Then he replied with a look so sad that even a four-year-old could grasp the message.

  "Take a bow," Mother hissed at me.

  My body bent over, slowly and deeply. A teardrop stained the fabric of my shoe. For the first time, I understood what the crying was about. My father was never coming back. My father was dead.

  *

  The ceremonies went on for several days. At the end, I felt like a dry towel. Every tear had been wrung out of me. My brothers also had an empty look about them. Even the baby was quiet. The only one who was still buzzing around was Mother. She had a sudden urge to return to Hong Kong, and no matter what the relatives said, she insisted on leaving on the next boat. While I was helping her roll up our clothes, Mother said to me, "I have a feeling something bad is going to happen. Don’t ask me what. I only know we have to get out of here…we just have to." She stared out the window for a while and resumed packing. I watched as she tucked Father’s portrait into several layers of clothing. She then wrapped them all with a big piece of cloth and tied the ends into a big knot.

  Crooked Mouth was one of those who saw us off at the port. I wanted to say something in parting to him. All I could think of was the grown-up words I’d heard. "Be good and obey your mother," I said to him. Everyone burst out laughing. My chest, which had been feeling tight, suddenly lay open, and I was proud of myself for causing the merriment.

  The voyage home seemed faster than the one out. We arrived in Hong Kong before my baby brother could fret too much. The moment we got home, the landlord came to our flat, exclaiming, "Thank Buddha you’re back!" He began reading from a newspaper in his hand. There were many big words that I didn’t know, but this much I understood: a typhoon had hit Swatow. The town was flooded, homes were swept away, and thousands died. Mother was anxious to find out about her in-laws, but she had no way of reaching them. Many people came to visit us in the days that followed. All they talked about was what had happened to various people in Swatow. Sometimes Mother would say, "Thank the goddess Kuan-Yin for protecting him!" Other times her reaction would be, "What did he do in his previous life to deserve this!" I didn’t see anyone cry, but people spoke as if they had a fish bone stuck in their throats.

  Mother gathered us in her room. My elder brothers, Yung (Courage) and Kin (Strength), were twelve and ten years old. I came third, the only girl in the family, and was named Ying (Jade). The baby, Ngai (Perseverance), was two. Mother said the gap between Brother Kin and me was six years wide because Father seldom visited during that time. If she hadn’t gone to Shanghai to meet him that fall, she wouldn’t have had me. For a long time I thought I came from Shanghai.

  Mother sat on the bed with Ngai in her lap. The rest of us stood at attention.

  "You listen carefully now," she said. "I don’t want anymore crying. Your tears have drowned your father’s hometown. You think you deserve sympathy because your father died, but you should look at what happened to your Fifteenth Uncle’s family. He wasn’t home when the typhoon hit, but the flood swept his house away and with it his entire family." Mother closed her eyes and murmured, "He’d be better off dead, Buddha have mercy."

  Immediately I saw an image of Crooked Mouth swimming in the sea. His twisted mouth was opening and closing like that of a sick goldfish.

  "From now on we can’t depend on your uncles in Swatow to help us out. In fact, we have to help them. Your father has left you some money, but we must spend it carefully and save wherever we can. Seventh Aunt has agreed to let us share her flat. The rent will be half of what we’re paying now, but the space will only be half as much. I don’t want to hear a whimper from any of you!"

  I stopped breathing. I could feel my brothers do the same.

  "Yung, you’re the oldest," Mother went on. "At your age, your father was accompanying his father on trading trips. I can send you to Thailand to learn business, but my heart feels it’s not right for you. Business is as unpredictable as the weather. One day it is fair, and the next day it can be stormy. Going to school is a safer path. I may not know how to read and write, but I do know that an education is more valuable than money. Money can be spent, but education is something that no one can take away from you. You too, Kin," she shook her finger at her second son. "Both of you have to score the highest marks. If you’re not good enough to get scholarships, you’ll have to go out and do coolie work. I can’t afford to pay tuition and feed you at the same time."

  "What about me?" I piped up. "When am I going to school?"

  Mother gave a dismissive chuckle. "You’re a girl. Girls don’t go to school." She paused to give me a good long look. Everybody said I had smooth and fair skin like Mother’s, and I was going to grow up to be as pretty as she. "To marry into a rich family, you must never dirty your hands. They must be kept lily white or the matchmaker would think you come from a lower-class family. Remember this—you
must never touch any housework, and never, never enter the kitchen."

  Mother laid my hands on her palms, examining them. Her skin felt coarse, but I liked the way it chafed against mine. It made me feel small and safe. Mother would protect me, as she had protected me from the typhoon. I swore to be a good girl and listen to everything Mother said.

  *

  We gave up the apartment and moved into half of a flat. The other half was occupied by the landlady, whom I called Seventh Aunt. She was close to Mother, having grown up as a slave girl in Mother’s household. A businessman had bought Seventh Aunt her freedom by taking her as his third concubine. She was childless and was glad to have our company.

  Mother, my brothers, and I crowded into one bedroom. While Mother slept with Ngai, I slept in a big bed with my elder brothers. In addition, we had a maid who did chores for the family in exchange for room and board. Her name was Skinny, but because she was a fat girl, we called her Fat Skinny. She pulled out a canvas cot at night and slept in the corridor.

  We shared the living room and kitchen with Seventh Aunt. Once in a while, her husband showed up for dinner. The grown-ups always had lots to talk about. While my brothers couldn’t wait to leave the table, I liked the sound of adult voices. Seventh Uncle was constantly talking about a department store called Dai Yau, which means Big Have. He made it sound utterly fantastic—one store that carried everything from clothes to candy. When he wasn’t speaking, Seventh Aunt would be muttering in Mother’s ear, "It’s good to make your money grow." I thought it was an odd thing to say. Trees grow, children grow, but how can money grow? Mother mostly listened and nodded. When she spoke, her voice was low, not like when she lectured us.

  For a long time, Dai Yau hung constantly on their lips. Dai Yau was opening, Dai Yau was written up in the papers, Dai Yau made good sales, and so on. But by and by, the tone changed. The voices that spoke of Big Have were sounding smaller and smaller. The problem seemed to be something about the clerks swatting flies. I didn’t see what was so bad about that, but Mother thought the clerks should be doing more than swatting flies. Uncle told her to be patient, although he sounded rather impatient with her. He came to dinner less and less, and Mother ate more and more. She took to eating rice from a noodle bowl, which was many times the size of a rice bowl. Her face grew round, but it wasn’t a happy kind of roundness. When she wasn’t scolding us, her mouth hung downwards.

  Then one night, when there were only Seventh Aunt and Mother at the table, Mother said, "So it has come to this. Big Have has turned into Big Nothing. Will I get my money back?"

  "Oh, please don’t ask my old man that question. Many people are after him already. He’ll have to pay them first or they’ll put him in jail. Afterwards, I’m sure he’ll do his best to pay you back. Don’t worry, I’m your sister. If you can’t trust me, whom can you trust?" Seventh Aunt laughed, but I could tell it was a naughty laugh, as if she’d done something bad and was trying to cover up.

  Mother got up to return to our room. I pattered after her. As soon as we entered, Brother Yung looked up from his studies and said, "I need money to buy books tomorrow."

  Mother jumped. It was as if her eldest son had poked her with a needle.

  "Books, books, books, why are you always talking about books?" "Book" in Cantonese sounds the same as "lose." Mother always forbade us to mention that word on the day she played mahjong. "That’s all you ever think about, your books!" She reached for something, and before any of us could react, the stick end of a duster landed on Brother Yung’s back. He cried out. Mother whacked him again, this time across the cheek. A red welt swelled up. Brother Yung covered his face, sobbing.

  "You’re always crying," Mother screamed at him. "That’s what brought bad luck to this family. You cried your father to death, and now you’re crying my money away. See if you’re going to cry again!" She dealt him a blow on the neck. Brother Yung leaped from his chair, shielding his face with both hands as Mother lashed out in blind fury, striking him everywhere. Brother Yung danced and jerked like a monkey. With tears streaming down my face, I begged Mother to stop.

  "You bag of tears!" Mother shrieked at me. Her eyes had turned yellow. She didn’t look like Mother anymore. "You cried your father to death too! You’re lucky I haven’t sold you as a slave girl! Stop crying!" She whipped me on the leg. My flesh stung, and I burst out with a "Wah!" "I told you to stop crying!" Mother said, hitting me again. This time I sucked in my breath and held back my tears.

  Even the baby Ngai got a smack. "You’re the biggest culprit! If I didn’t have you, I would have gone to your father when he was sick, and he would be alive today!"

  The only person who escaped unscathed was Brother Kin. She only glared at him and told him to stay out of the way. For some reason that Mother never explained, Brother Kin was the only one exempt from blame for our father’s death. People said my second brother was Mother’s favorite because he was as handsome as Father. The most important reason, I thought, was he could make funny faces that made Mother laugh. The rest of us couldn’t get a smile out of her no matter what we did.

  *

  Our living conditions went down another step. From half an apartment, we moved into one room. I remember vividly the dump we called home at 47 Elgin St., fourth floor. We slept, ate, played, and studied in that one room. Fat Skinny squeezed in with us, and so did Father. His portrait followed the altar, which used to be in the living room but was now wedged between the beds. Sometimes I wished he would close his eyes and go to sleep like the rest of us.

  The worst part about this room was that it was right above the kitchen. Every time Mother stir-fried on the coal stoves, the smoke would billow up. Even if we rushed to open the windows, it took a while for the air to clear. In the meantime, our eyes watered, we choked and coughed, and the odor clung to our hair and clothes. We always smelled like our dinner. The poor ventilation no doubt contributed to my weak lungs.

  One good thing happened here, though. Shortly after we moved in, Mother reordered our sleeping arrangements due to something Fat Skinny said. I was six and Fat Skinny twelve, almost an adult in my eyes. I was especially impressed when she came home from the charity school she attended, flaunting her newly acquired knowledge on the facts of life.

  "You’re in deep trouble," she said to me. "A girl can get pregnant sleeping with men. You sleep with two men every night. You’re going to get pregnant!"

  The thought of growing a big belly scared me. I protested to my mother. For a second, she looked as if she were going to laugh. But the smile went away and she was stern again. "I have to tell Skinny not to put such things in your head. Well, don’t just look at me. Go bring your blanket over to my bed." From that night on, the three boys shared one bed, and Mother and I the other.

  To escape the dingy room, Mother turned to mahjong. It was fine by me, for though she left the boys at home, she always took me along. I got to see better homes than my own, and if there were children around, I would play nicely with them. Most of the time, I just sat quietly, watching with fascination the noisy drama of the game. Mother’s mahjong partners were full of praises for my good behavior. One of them liked me so much that she became my godmother. Although we never held a formal adoption ceremony, everyone knew she was the woman to whom I owed my education and my life.

  Her name was Sam-Koo, which means Miss Number Three because she ranked third in her family. I never knew her real name. Sam-Koo was a primary school graduate, a remarkable achievement for a woman of her generation. She had sharp eyes, a sharper tongue, and a pointed mouth like a parrot’s beak. She remained single because, in her own words, she hated men to death. In those days, every man had at least two wives, some as many as seven or eight. A woman either accepted it as the way it was, or stayed single. Spinsters usually became dependents of their fathers or brothers, but Sam-Koo didn’t want that either. She got herself a job as a schoolteacher and became an independent woman. Whenever I was cranky, she would threaten me with, "If you carry
on like that, I’m going to get married!" Nothing scared me more, and I would shut up at once.

  Our family became her family, and I the daughter she never had. She often came to spend the night at our place, squeezing into the bed with Mother and me. She treated me like a doll, dressing me up, braiding my hair, and decorating it with colorful bows and flowers. My brothers used to sing out at the sight of me, "Here comes the flower shop." They were jealous. I was the only girl and getting all the attention.

  Sam-Koo worked at Yeuk Chih Elementary and lived there as well, sharing a dorm room with a fellow teacher. Narrow as her bed was, my slender body slipped comfortably into the sliver of space left for me. I stayed there for weeks on end and got to know everyone. One day, the school’s principal came to visit Sam-Koo. When she saw me drawing a picture of a person, she asked me who it was. I told her it was my mother.

  "Do you know your mother’s name?" she said, her eyebrows arched as if she didn’t expect me to know the answer.

  My head bounced up and down with confidence. I’d often heard the mahjong aunties address my mother. In a loud voice, I said, "My mother’s name is Lan Do Sei."

  The principal couldn’t stop laughing. I had no clue that what sounded like a legitimate name was only a nickname. Lan Do Sei means "The Rotten Gambler."

  The principal must have taken pity on me. She allowed me to sit in the classroom for first graders. The teacher even put my name on the roster. Whenever she called, "Li Shing Ying," I would spring to my feet and shout, "Present." This went on for two weeks until Mother ordered me to come home, bringing my education to a halt.

  Sam-Koo dropped by on the weekend. As usual with her visits, she ended up spending the night. Lying in bed with Sam-Koo on one side and Mother on the other, I latched on to every word of their exchange. Sam-Koo said the principal would "open one eye and close one eye" to my tuition. Mother said that even if I got to study for free, getting me to school was still a problem. My home was in a district called Wanchai, which was on the flat ground of the island. Yeuk Chi was halfway up VictoriaPeak. The distance was too far for me to walk, and the tram ran only along the shore. Sam-Koo said she would think of something, and told Mother to think hard too. Sam-Koo went on about how important education was for girls, how men couldn’t be relied on, and so on. Mother answered with a loud snore.