by Li, Veronica
I should have guessed—she was the amah who’d raised him. "Why does she speak such a funny language? Isn’t she Shanghainese?"
"She’s from a village near Shanghai. What she speaks is a rural dialect, which is very different from what city people speak. Her children were grown when she came to the city to look for work. Baba hired her and sent her to Hangchow to take care of me."
"I didn’t know you lived in Hangchow."
"I was born in Hangchow. In the beginning Baba kept separate households: Hangchow for Ah Yi and Shanghai for Ah Ma. Only later did he merge the two branches under the same roof."
This was news to me. I’d thought the three of them had always been together. "How did your father get to marry two sisters?" I asked the question that had caused me no small amount of perplexity.
"The first marriage with Ah Ma was arranged by matchmakers. The second one with Ah Yi was out of free love—like us." Hok-Ching gave a dirty laugh, a signal that he was about to digress.
I fended off his probing hand and went on: "But how did it happen? He was married to Ah Ma, and then…he asked for the hand of her sister?"
"How do I know? I wasn’t there."
"Didn’t anyone tell you anything?"
Hok-Ching rolled back on his side of the bed. He was sober now. "I was told that Ah Yi was a boarder at a girls’ secondary school. On holidays she stayed over at her married sister’s house. Baba liked her… and they had me."
"You mean to say that—" I paused to think of a tactful way of putting it—"you were conceived before Ah Yi had officially entered the family door?"
"I guess."
I fought the urge to exclaim, "You mean you’re a bastard?" Discretion held me back and I said instead, "How old were you when you moved into the Shanghai home?"
"I’m not sure, maybe two or three. They’re rather vague about my age. Ah Yi said I was born in the year of the horse, but officially my year of birth is 1917, which is the year of the sheep. I’m quite confused myself."
I began to understand: Baba, attracted to his wife’s sister, had a tryst with her and got her pregnant. He whisked her away to Hangchow and set up a home for her and their love child. After a few years, when the heat of the scandal had cooled, he took her into his official home and legalized the relationship. The lovers had to cook up some story to explain how they’d linked up, and the only person who could blow open their secret was Hok-Ching. His age alone would tell a lot, and therefore must be fudged.
"They made my life hell the moment I stepped through the door," Hok-Ching said, his voice tight and snappish. "Ah Ma had three children of her own already—one girl and two boys, and they were all older than I. Big Sister was the terror of my life."
"Was she the one who committed suicide?" Keeping track of my large clan of in-laws was no easy task. Aside from Hok-Ching’s live siblings, there were also the dead. Out of twelve live births from Ah Ma and Ah Yi, four had died in childhood, and one, the eldest girl, killed herself in her twenties. She’d fallen in love with a married man, and when Baba forbade her to see him again, the lovers checked into a hotel and drank rat poison.
"She’s the one," Hok-Ching said. "I didn’t mind my brothers so much. Frail and sickly as I was, I wasn’t afraid to die. If they picked on me, I wouldn’t hesitate to punch it out with them. They were older and bigger, but they didn’t scare me. Big Sister was another story. She had a tongue that cut like a knife. She was always hinting that I wasn’t part of the family, that my last name shouldn’t be Wang." Hok-Ching kicked off a corner of the blanket. "They were against me, all of them. Old Mama was the only one who took my side." His voice caught and I saw a drop glisten in the corner of his eye.
The bizarre behavior of this family made sense now. The illicit affair was the family’s dark secret, and Hok-Ching was its living symbol. What better person to punish than this jaundiced little boy? His mother wouldn’t protect him because she was too hamstrung by her own guilt. His father couldn’t protect him because a man had to go out to earn a living. Old Mama was Hok-Ching’s only shield.
In the days that followed, I took note of my husband’s relationship with his nanny. The more I observed, the uneasier I felt. Mother-son didn’t quite describe it; neither did best friends. The only word that kept coming to my mind was—lovers. I often found them whispering in the hallway. Old Mama always stopped mid-sentence when she saw me, as though I could understand her dialect. At meal times, she hovered over Hok-Ching, anxious for him to finish his bowl of rice so she could serve him seconds. She was the only one she deemed worthy of washing Hok-Ching’s laundry. If by mistake the washerwoman touched an item that belonged to Hok-Ching, Old Mama would squawk like a mad hen.
The intensity was mutual. My husband loved his nanny more than his own mother, and most certainly more than me. At breakfast one morning, while Old Mama stooped to place a bowl of soybean milk on the table, Hok-Ching grabbed her wrist and drew her close to him. "What’s this on your cheek?" he said.
I could understand his Shanghainese, but what she said was beyond me. Hok-Ching got up and left the table.
"Aren’t you going to eat your breakfast?" I called after him.
"Old Mama’s boil is oozing pus. I’m going to the pharmacy to get her some medication."
Old Mama disappeared as soon as Hok-Ching did. I was relieved, because we both knew that we couldn’t stand each other. At least I could finish my breakfast of soybean milk and fried bread in peace.
Hok-Ching returned with an armful of packages. He spread them out on the dining table and unwrapped them, one by one. All this fuss over a little boil was getting ridiculous.
"Your breakfast has gone cold, and you’re going to be late for work," I said.
Ignoring me, he took a bottle out of a fancy box and shook it with vigor. The label was in German. Of course, nothing but the best for Old Mama. After seating her in a chair, he tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her face. With gentle strokes, he swabbed her pimple with the imported lotion. "This is for cleaning," he told Old Mama. Shaking another bottle also inscribed in German, he added, "The pharmacist says this is the most advanced formula. It will dry up your boil without leaving any scars."
Twice a day, seven days in a row, my husband ministered to his nanny until every trace of the pimple had disappeared. Their unusual relationship was most disconcerting for me to watch. It was as if Old Mama were the young and beautiful concubine, and I were the old and jealous first wife. I consoled myself by recalling the bickering bunch in Shanghai. Compared to that rancorous home, Nanking was a vast improvement. The household was peaceful except for the hostility between Hok-Ching and Wai-Jing. The tension, however, was short-term, for she was soon to join her husband, Hok-Jit, in America. They’d accepted Baba’s condition of going to the U.S. without their baby.
There was another person living with us. He was Baba’s personal secretary—a suave, well-dressed man in his forties by the name of Cho. He had a home and family elsewhere, but during the week he lived in Baba’s house in order to provide round-the- clock service. Sometime during my first week in Nanking, he showed up at dinner in his business suit and tie and a briefcase tucked under his arm. Bowing and bending, he begged Baba to excuse him.
"Your Excellency is like a giant," he said to Baba. "You take one step, and a little man like myself has to run ten steps to keep up. I am afraid I cannot have dinner until I have finished my work at the office."
"Ha, ha, ha," Baba laughed, his head tossed back, showing the roof of his cavernous mouth. "You exaggerate, Secretary Cho. How can my short legs run faster than yours?" To one of the servants, Baba said, "Tell the chauffeur I won’t be needing the car tonight. He should drive Mr. Cho to the office and wait there until Mr. Cho finishes his work."
Cho wagged his invisible tail as if his master had given him a juicy bone. After he left, Baba extolled the virtues of diligence and loyalty. Everyone at the table knew whom he meant.
Later that night while I was up feeding Ag
nes, I heard footsteps down the hallway where Cho’s room was. The clock read half past four in the morning. The secretary’s dedication impressed me. Even if he did have a greasy smile and a slick tongue for flattery, I had to admit that he was indeed diligent.
Cho repeated his performance frequently, and each time Baba lavished him with compliments. I didn’t read anything more into this little drama until I overheard the servants talking in their quarters.
"Your Excellency is like a giant—" it was Ah Hing speaking in Cho’s melodious lilt. "You walk one step and I have to run ten—"
A man’s guffaw followed. "He told me not to tell anyone. But if he can do it, why can’t I talk about it?" The voice belonged to the chauffeur. He was single, and so was the pleasant-looking Ah Hing. I’d noticed that they liked to banter with each other.
"He looks dressed for the office, but it’s not the office he wants me to drive him to. It’s the mahjong parlor!" the chauffeur added.
"I don’t understand this. Why doesn’t Minister Wang suspect anything? If I were to leave the baby to play mahjong, my mistress would find out soon enough. That Old Cho claims that he goes to the office at night. Can’t Minister Wang see that he hasn’t done any work?"
I was pleased to see that Ah Hing was as smart as I’d thought. At the same time, I felt bad that my father-in-law’s weakness had become the brunt of servants’ gossip.
"Ahem!" I cleared my throat to alert them of my presence. "There you are, Ah Hing. I couldn’t find any clean bibs in the drawer. Can you see if there are any back there?"
The two, who had been sitting side by side on Ah Hing’s bed, jumped to attention. I wanted to tell them not to worry; their secret was safe with me. I wasn’t going to Baba to report on his secretary. If I did, I would be the one to get into trouble. In Baba’s eyes, Cho was faultless. All that Baba could see were Cho’s beautifully embroidered praises such as: "Minister Wang, if you had joined the Kuomintang, you would be sitting in the seat of Prime Minister." Or: "Minister Wang, you will go down in history as the economic genius of the century."
I began to wonder about my revered father-in-law. What did it mean for the country when its leader had such poor judgment of character? Sneaking off to play mahjong might be a small matter, but dishonesty was not. If Cho were to commit a serious offense, would Baba be just as blind?
*
Chiang Kai-Shek didn’t share my concern. Within several months of my move to Nanking, Baba was promoted to Deputy Prime Minister. Before I had time to settle down, I was packing again, this time to a spanking new house far from the mass grave. Instead of dead soldiers, live ones surrounded the place. Every time I went in and out of the house, if only to take Agnes to play in the garden, soldiers saluted me. Whenever Ah Yi took me out to play mahjong, soldiers stood guard outside till we finished the game. Soldiers even went shopping with us. At department stores, all I had to do was to point to what I wanted. A soldier would carry it to the counter and have it registered in Baba’s account.
What a far cry from my life just a few years ago! I used to be a working girl running around on my own, constantly breathless from trying to catch up with inflation. Now I could have all the material goods in the world without asking how much they cost. I’d never cared much about money, other than having enough to live on. But every time I looked out the window of my limo and saw the men and women trudging in their drab clothing, my heart filled with gratitude for my good fortune and with sadness for the little people of China.
Two years after the war, much of the country’s population was still struggling to stay alive. Military campaigns against the communists were consuming much of the government’s resources. Unemployment and inflation went unchecked. Sometimes at dinner, Baba would let out some of the current thinking on economic reform. Bits of my textbook knowledge of economics would surface, and I would be tempted to add my voice to the debate. I always kept my mouth shut, though, for opening it could only expose my ignorance. Ever since I got married, my brains had gone mostly unused. The only printed matter that passed before my eyes was the Kuomintang mouthpiece, the Central Daily, which carried more propaganda than news. For me to tell my father-in-law how to run the country was as laughable as for him to tell me how to lull my baby to sleep.
I decided to leave politics to politicians and concentrate on my own field—motherhood. During my first pregnancy, I had been careless to the point of almost causing a miscarriage. Thus when my second pregnancy came along, I was determined to take better care of my baby. Knowing how forgetful I was, I asked one of the orderlies to remind me to take my calcium tablets. Sure enough, the strapping Shandong lad presented me a white pill on a saucer after every meal. The calcium went directly to the baby’s bones, which grew so large that they jabbed into my stomach. I could only eat half a bowl of rice at a time. Anything more would come right back up the moment the fetus twitched.
The rapid growth sent me into labor a month before the due date. With sirens blaring, a military escort cleared the road to the hospital. Nurses met me at the entrance and helped me into a wheelchair, although I was perfectly capable of walking. In the lobby, a small crowd had gathered around a woman in the same condition as I. On closer look, I recognized her as the Prime Minister’s daughter-in-law. We exchanged a few words—what a coincidence, dilating at the same time—and were wheeled into separate rooms.
The next day a Central Daily headline read: Third Generation of Prime Minister and Deputy Arriving Hand in Hand. Baba was tickled, and so was I. This was the first time my name appeared in the papers. I wanted to clip out the article and send it to Mother, except that the information it carried was incorrect. After one night at the hospital, the third generation of the Deputy Prime Minister decided its time hadn’t come yet. All movement stopped, and I went home.
Three weeks later, on January 21, 1948, a military convoy rushed me to the hospital again. This time, the baby was in such a hurry that I had to constrict the passageway so that the doctor could get ready. As a result, the baby nearly suffocated in the birth canal, and emerged blue and lifeless. The doctor held the newborn by the feet and slapped its bottom. "Wah!" my son cried. His blue face turned crimson, and he kicked and boxed at the cruel world. Laughing, the nurse pretended to dodge his jabs. I joined in the laughter, happy that my son was all right. I was also glad to have completed the Chinese character for "good," which consists of two parts: girl on the left and boy on the right.
My eldest son was christened Patrick in English. This was the name of a former Hong KongUniversity classmate who was now studying law in England. My son would do well to accomplish as much as his namesake. His Chinese name, Kin-Yip, came from his grandfather. Kin-Yip is Nanking’s ancient name, and it means "to establish a profession." This is a good aspiration for a boy, and especially the eldest boy. In a Chinese family, the hopes and dreams of the older generation rest on the first son. His achievements will determine the quality of his parents’ golden years. His home will be his parents’ home, and his wife will honor his parents as if they were her own. Although I was far from that stage in life, I believed that the education of a child began at birth. That was why, in spite of the number of nannies and orderlies running around the house, I always spent time with my children during the day and slept with them at night. Most women in my shoes would be living at the mahjong table, but I had no such inclinations.
*
Hok-Ching was having trouble at work again. At first, I let his complaints go in one ear and out the other, as this wasn’t the first supervisor he’d detested. But when he came home one day and told me that he had quit his job, I was forced to listen.
My reaction was: "Again?"
"What do you mean by that? You talk as though I do this all the time."
"You quit your last job at ChungshanUniversity, and the one before in Szechwan," I reminded him.
"Those were different circumstances. How can you compare them?" His face was a thunderhead, his dark complexion darker than usual.
"What are you going to do now? Ask Baba to find you another job?"
"What do you mean? He didn’t get me this job. The manager hired me on my own merit. Had I known that he was a communist, I would have told him to go to hell."
"How do you know he’s a communist?"
"I wrote an anticommunist editorial for a student magazine, and he had the gall to censor it! I’ve suspected for a long time that this man is a traitor. I didn’t have proof then, but I do now. Somebody is giving him secret directives. I bet you anything he’s a card-carrying member of the Communist Party."
There can be other reasons for rejecting your editorial, I wanted to say. But I also knew the futility of arguing with my husband.
"I can always find another job," Hok-Ching carried on. "With my talents, people will be fighting over me. Have you heard of the time Baba took me to a famous fortune-teller in Shanghai? The man studied my face and said I was as sharp as an awl. You know what that is? It’s a pointed tool carpenters use for making holes. What he meant was that whatever I took on, I would pin it down and poke at it until I got through."
The fortune-teller had a point. I’d seen how my husband operated. Whenever he tried to tackle something, he always did it with obsession. However, the moment an obstacle blocked his path, he would fly into a rage. The fortune-teller’s insight therefore had one fatal flaw—Hok-Ching never kept the pressure on long enough for the point to penetrate.
What were we to do? The thought of crawling to Baba once again filled me with shame. His goodwill might not have been used up, but the skin of my face wasn’t thick enough to weather the humiliation. Besides, what could he do for his obstinate son? Find him another job, only to have him quit again in a few months? No, I’d had enough of this cycle. The only way to stop it was to get out altogether. As long as Hok-Ching had this big tree of a father to lean on, he would never learn to stand on his own two feet.