by Leslie Li
“Chrysanthemums!” Sze Tai-tai sighed, overcome by their beauty and relieved by her deliverance from the chaotic street scene.
“You’re showing your age!” teased Hwang Tai-tai. The chrysanthemum was the floral symbol for the autumn of one’s life, longevity and a life spent in quiet retirement.
“You’ve done the right thing in coming here,” said the chrysanthemum vendor, who was anything but retiring. “Come in, come in! Look at my darlings from all angles! Appreciate their beauty, rarity, symbolism — and buy!” He extended his arm and swung it in a wide arc before the creamy white, yellow, and purple blossoms. “I love my flowers, and I’m an expert in their every secret and idiosyncrasy Just think! All there is to know about the one hundred and thirty-three varieties of chrysanthemum — and I know it all!
“Madam,” he said, noting where my grandmother’s eyes had strayed and seeing where they now settled, “you are clearly a connoisseur of floral beauty, and so I will show you only the rarest, only the loveliest, of my chrysanthemums. Look here — Honey-Linked Bracelets. And here — Purple Tiger Whiskers. And there — Eyebrows of the Old Ruler, the Old Ruler being none other than the venerable Lao Tzu.”
“Really?” Nai-nai said, her interest caught as much by the name of the flower as by its beauty. She nodded at the flower vendor’s assistant, indicating that she would like a pot of those.
“And there next to Old Eyebrows — Evening Sun on a Duck’s Back. And here — Yellow Orioles in the Green Willow. Over there — Golden Phoenix Holding a Pearl in Its Mouth.”
The three other women, having wandered into other stalls, gazed upon branches of white plum blossom, pine, and bamboo — the “three friends of winter,” since all of them bloomed in the darkest months. There were also sprays of pale-green-tinged peach blossoms, fragrant vellum-like magnolias, waxen-petaled camellias, and dense, velvety cockscomb. But my grandmother’s very favorites were the peonies, fu gui hua, the “flower of wealth and honor.” While some were full, feathery blooms of pure white or delicate pink, she chose to decorate her house for New Year’s with an earthenware pot of deep scarlet ones. She also bought branches of plum blossoms for their calm and simple beauty; a narcissus plant in the hopes that it would open on New Year’s Day; a kumquat tree heavy with fruit, for kumquats symbolized children; and a bellflower tree since red was the color of good fortune and happiness.
In contrast to the majestic schooner’s single apparition, the sole event that brought humankind near my door, a pedestrian tugboat put in daily appearances, chugging its way to and from the fish hatchery about a hundred yards offshore. I gauged the time of day by its comings and goings, since I refused to wear a watch and since the maverick summer sun in these latitudes refused to abandon the sky, dipping below the horizon for only an hour or two before bobbing back up in a new day I rarely turned on a lamp, seldom consulted a clock. And, after two hefty bouts of writing both morning and afternoon, I could read from my book of essays (novels are for tropical islands) by sunlight till nearly eleven at night. That Charles Lamb’s “The Superannuated Man” was among them was providential, even synchronous, as this line makes evident: “For that is the only true Time which man can properly call his own, that which he has all to himself; the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people’s time, not his.” With the unparalleled gift of true Time, the truth of which didn’t prevent it from fleeing — which perhaps made it fleeter — I lit a candle and wrote the ending to Nai-nai’s prophetic Chinese New Year of 1933 in the darkest hours of an early morning in 1988:
Satisfied with their purchases from the flower market, the women started to make their way back to the spot where they had left Liu-wu. Distracted by a blind palmist playing a flute, Yifu stopped and tugged on Nai-nai’s arm. “Ninth Sister-in-Law, can’t we stop a minute? I want to have my fortune told.”
Before my grandmother could answer, Sze Tai-tai intervened. “It’s so noisy and crowded here. I’ll show you a much better place — one away from the flower market where the reader both tells you your past and predicts your future. That way you know whether or not you’re getting an honest reading.”
“Let’s all get our fortunes told,” Hwang Tai-tai suggested. She looked at the dwarf mandarin orange tree she had just bought at the market. “I wouldn’t mind knowing if certain investments I made recently will bear fruit.”
Liu-wu had fallen asleep at the wheel, but he quickly righted his cap over his eyes and drove his passengers to Tian Wangliao, the Temple of the Heavenly Gods. When my grandmother saw the “Temple,” she was visibly disappointed. It was nothing but a shopping mall, full of stores and business offices. Sze Tai-tai persisted: “The worstlooking restaurants often serve the tastiest food, do they not? I assure you, you’ll get your money’s worth.”
They entered the building only to face a second disappointment: a long line of people waited in the reception area. “This will take forever! Let’s all go in together,” Hwang Tai-tai suggested. “After all, we’re good friends. What do we have to hide from each other?”
When their turn came, the four women entered a small, well-lit room, unfurnished except for a small desk, two chairs, and a simple wooden bookcase with scores of well-thumbed volumes crowding its shelves. Pasted on one wall was a large drawing of a face covered with dots and Chinese characters. Next to it was a large diagram of the palm of a human hand scored with various lines and marked with Chinese characters. On the opposite wall hung a brush-and-ink scroll of Mount T’ai, one of China’s five sacred mountains.
Seated in one of the two chairs, the fortune-teller rose as soon as the four women entered, and bowed gracefully from the waist. He was probably in his late seventies, but his body was straight though his hair was as white as the camellia blossoms Nai-nai had just bought. His complexion was smooth and supple, pulled tight over the planes and angles of his face. But what was particularly arresting about him were his eyes; they had the youth, sparkle, and curiosity of a child’s.
“We’ve come together to save time,” Hwang Tai-tai explained, “since there are so many people waiting to see you. We don’t mind standing and, being friends, we have nothing to hide from each other.”
The physiognomist nodded and extended his hand, indicating that one of the four women should sit down in the chair opposite him.
“You go first,” Yifu whispered to Sze Tai-tai with a nudge, “since you brought us here. I want to hear what he says about your past as well as your future, so I know whether or not he’s honest.”
Sze Tai-tai sat down. Her three friends gathered protectively behind her chair while the fortune-teller scrutinized her face and examined her palms. “You have no difficulties or hardships in your life,” he told her. “You have plenty of the four basics of life: food, shelter, clothing, and travel. You had a good beginning, and you will have a good end. Though your fortune is not bad, it’s not particularly propitious, for though you possess money, you lack position.”
Sze Tai-tai, satisfied with her fortune, rose from the chair, which Hwang Tai-tai immediately occupied. The fortune-teller looked at her face, her hands, and her general demeanor. Her “lines of destiny,” as he called them. “You are a conscientious and diligent helpmate to your husband,” he said. “Also, a devoted mother to your son, a loyal friend to those you like, and a fearsome adversary to those you do not. You are astute in money matters and know how to choose your friends, depending on their influence and prestige. You have had some suffering in your life which has been caused by your husband and the loss of a beloved family member, but you have been able to turn your suffering to your advantage. For the rest of your life, you may expect good luck and material comfort.”
Hwang Tai-tai rose from the chair with a nod of appreciation toward Sze Tai-tai.
“Which one of you remaining ladies would like her fortune told next?” the old man asked when neither Nai-nai nor Yifu approached the chair before him.
My grandmother glanced at her sister-in-law,
but the girl shook her head vigorously and motioned for her to be seated instead. Before Nai-nai could acquiesce, the physiognomist rose from his chair, pressed his palms together at his forehead, and bowed low from the waist.
“Madam,” he said in a husky voice, “without looking at your face for more than a few seconds and without looking at your palms at all, I can tell you that your fortune is the most propitious that I have seen in my long life. You are one among millions. You possess love, fortune, position, and long life — the best of what there is to be had on earth.”
My grandmother grasped the back of the chair and eased herself into it.
“Your husband will stand head and shoulders above the crowd. He will occupy the highest position in the land, save one. Had you been born a man, you would have occupied the place I have predicted for your husband. You would have been the number two, perhaps even the number one, leader in the country”.
Seeing the confusion and disbelief on her face, he commented upon her features that indicated the life he foretold. “You have long eyebrows, the kind called Clear and Beautiful. You have long earlobes, thick, fat, and glossy, the kind called Shoulder-Touching Ears. These are very rare and are usually found on a rich and powerful man, an emperor, or a king. Your nose is long, too, strong and well formed with a rounded tip, a Deer Nose, which means that you are kind by nature, keep your promises, and possess wealth and long life. You also have Elephant Eyes, long and narrow with wrinkles above and below, which signifies kindness, friendliness, and wisdom. Your mouth is a Cherry Mouth, particularly fortunate in a woman. It means that you are clever and wise and possess a gentle nature, that you will always be wealthy, and that you will know a highly respected person who will help you in times of difficulty”.
His clear eyes then dimmed somewhat. “There is, however, a bit of grief in your life. You and your husband do not live under the same roof. You and your husband will never live under the same roof.”
“Oh, Laoshi,” Sze Tai-tai blurted out, “if you only knew how accurate—”
Nai-nai placed her hand on her landlady’s arm. “What you’ve said about my life is very interesting,” she told the fortune-teller, “but it is also not at all true. In fact, you have misread all three fortunes. The husbands of the two ladies whose fortunes you told before mine occupy very high positions in the government. My husband is their subordinate and takes his orders from them.”
The physiognomist smiled. “People say that fortunetellers make up fortunes at will and at random, without any knowledge of or regard for truth and facts. I have studied books of augury all my life, madam: The Ma-i of the Sung dynasty, The Pa P’u Tzu of the Ming dynasty, The Golden Scissors of the Qing dynasty. What I say is based on my understanding of these venerable books. If what I have said turns out to be true, return and pay me more than what I now charge you. If it is false, come back and recover your fee.” He looked into Nai-nai’s eyes. “Fortune decides half yonr fate. Yonr efforts decide the other half Even a woman born under auspicious stars must have a good heart and perform good deeds. Madam, for telling your fortune, I will charge you ten times the usual price, since you can anticipate a tenfold increase in your fortunes.”
“What about me?” Yifu cried, tapping my grandmother on the shoulder and gesturing for her to relinquish the chair. “You haven’t told my fortune yet.”
The fortune-teller stared at the girl and drew his brows together. “Let me see one of your palms.” He studied it for several seconds, then put it down on the table. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you, young miss, but your fortune is not at all propitious.”
Before he could continue, Yifu jumped up from the chair, knocking it over, and began berating the man. “Liar! Charlatan! You don’t know anything!” Then she turned to the three women, her face flushed, her hands clenched into tight fists. “We should never have come to this place ... to see this ... imposter! It’s all your fault!” she shrieked, pointing to Sze Tai-tai. “You’re the one who brought us here to this ... this fake!”
“The lines of destiny that I have seen in your face and hand is based on my knowledge of the great books of physiognomy that have been passed down through the centuries. What I say are not my words but the words of the books, and the words are true. In your face and hand, I have gazed upon your future.”
Yifu’s anger dissolved, and she clasped her hands together prayerfully. “Will I marry?”
“You will,” the fortune-teller answered. “But your husband will die young. As for you, you are comfortable now because of the goodness of others, but you will have a bad and painful end. I advise you to be kind to others and to perform good deeds, and you may alter your fortune for the better. Use the knowledge of your fortune which I have just told you to improve your lot. As for my fee, I charge you nothing.”
Yifu’s face had turned white with fear. “Do you think I’d pay you one cash for hearing a bunch of lies? You’re nothing but an imposter! I’ll report you to the authorities. My brother is very powerful. One word from him and hell put you out of business!” She turned and stomped out of the room.
“I’ve read all of your fortunes,” the old man told the three remaining women. “Whether or not they are accurate, you will find out in due course. I charge both of you” — he looked at Hwang Tai-tai, then at Sze Tai-tai — “one kuai As for you” — he looked into my grandmother’s face with a calm gravity in his eyes that had been absent with the others — “I charge you ten kuai. And I hope that you will come back and tell me whether or not the destiny I’ve predicted for you has come to pass.”
On my second-to-last day on Kustavi Tangential, my all-to-myself time was beginning to weigh a bit (as were the number of filled pages in my notebook). I felt I could, I should, succumb to the urge to trade my islomanic seclusion for a glimpse of society on Kustavi Central just a bridge away As I walked toward my destination, the forest of tortured pines gave way to deciduous trees and pliant ferns. The ground, once dappled with more shade than sun, grew brighter, more verdant. As the sun rose higher in the sky, my heart rose to my throat in anticipation of everything I lacked: people, stores, cafés, renao. When I arrived at the foot of the bridge, two cars on the other side of it, one fast upon the other and precursors of what I thought I craved, whizzed around the bend heading, surely, for the port on Kustavi Central. I did not follow their lead. I did not cross the bridge. I did not advance upon civilization. Not I. Not yet. I would be faithful to true Time, grounded in proper Place. And I knew just the spot. I turned around and walked back to my centering rock.
My centering rock, though actually in Finland, grounded me in China. My centering rock, though in the present, connected me with my heritage and Nai-nai’s past — parts of which I personally witnessed, parts of which I only heard about secondhand, and parts (the lion’s share, most likely) which I didn’t know at all and never would. In order to make a unified whole of her life in words — in sum, a story — these last parts had to be plausible, based on or consonant with what I knew about Nai-nai firsthand or was told by someone else. In sum, parts which, as far as I knew, did not happen but which could have happened. That is, credible parts (credible being the operative word) which I would have to invent. There I was sitting on my centering rock, having turned my back on a dollop of civilization a bridge span away when the question struck and took hold: Why was I trying to write Nai-nai’s biography, where too many parts were missing, when the manuscript obviously wanted to be a novel, whose missing parts I could make up?
I’d spent the last five years, when I wasn’t working in an office or raising my family, writing abortive biographies. The first — a complete draft of some six hundred double-spaced typewritten pages — was a biography of my grandfather. It didn’t work, quite. I then wrote a second complete draft of a joint biography of my grandparents. That didn’t quite work either, but I was getting close. To what I wasn’t sure, but I kept the faith — faith, according to Ivani Illich, being “the readiness for a surprise.” I then del
eted my grandfather in good part and was about two-thirds of the way through a third incarnation — this time, a biography of my grandmother — which was what I’d come to Kustavi to resume only to discover that her biography wanted to be a novel.
That’s what I’d do, I told myself, rapping my knuckles against my centering rock for lack of wood. For something better than wood. I would fill in the empty or unknown areas of my story with my imagination. I would build the bridge of my story with whatever stones — factual or fictional — lay in my path that best fit the curve of its arch.
On my last day on Kustavi Tangential, I was sitting cross-legged on my centering rock waiting for Mr. Karjalainen to come and drive me to the bus depot on Kustavi Central. I was mulling over empty areas of my novel-to-be. First, I would change Nai-nai’s name — from Xiuwen to Xuewen, which means “studies literature” — so that I could “see” the novel’s protagonist and not my grandmother. For additional emotional distance, I’d devise a nickname for her, I told myself, one based on her beginnings, which would be similar to my grandmother’s. As she was the fourth unwanted daughter of poor Chinese peasants, it was her fate to be drowned or smothered at birth. But her mother, who could not bring herself to kill the newborn, tricked her husband into believing she had just borne him a son, whom he proudly named Tian, or Sweet, based on such sweet news. When his wife unswaddled the child before him days later and tearfully explained that her gender mistake was caused by her temporary possession by an evil spirit, her husband fell on the dirt floor, beating it with his fists.
“What I named Tian will now be called Ku. What I called Sweet will now be known as Bitter, when bitter is all I feel to be cheated out of a son, when bitterness is all yet another daughter will bring into our lives.”