by Zhang Yueran
“Naturally.”
Hua Hua was silent, bending to look closely at the shells, her face almost touching the water. “Are these shells for fortune-telling?”
Her eyes met mine, honest, direct. The air between us seemed to solidify. I looked at her, certain she was a spirit sent to help me. Yes, fortune-telling. That must be what Chun Chi was doing.
Hiding my shock, I nodded calmly. “Yes. She can see into the future.”
Hua Hua stroked her big white cat and sighed in admiration. “How wondrous. Has she told your fortune? What’s going to happen to you?”
“Of course she has, but I can’t talk to you about such things,” I said crisply.
Hua Hua sighed again. “I’d like her to tell my fortune. I want to know … who my husband is going to be.” She blushed.
A girl’s exuberant growth slows down at fourteen or fifteen, the road ahead unclear. She grows tired of herself, feels her body becoming dangerous. That’s when she begins to yearn for marriage, wanting to pass herself on like a parcel, so she can stop worrying.
Those were the first words we exchanged, that late spring afternoon, around a stone trough full of mysterious shells. The formless atmosphere tugged at us, filled us with melancholy. Only many years later were Hua Hua and I able to understand this exquisite sadness: locust flowers falling in drifts across the courtyard, two lost travellers meeting at a junction, knowing only that they will journey together.
Different routes to the same destination. I never asked Hua Hua if she was disappointed when the truth about the seashells was revealed, not even many years later when she had become my wife. Perhaps that moment, staring at the jumbled shells with an order all their own, she had already guessed the riddle.
10
In all those years, Hua Hua was the only one who burst into my life. We had no family, no friends, no dealings with any outsiders. Even at the New Year, our house remained lonely. As a child I shied from such a bleak start to the year, and slipped away to watch our neighbours set off fireworks instead.
Children, their faces ruddy, ran about in the snow. Everyone quietened the second after a fuse was lit: a burst of flame like an overhead chrysanthemum, a thousand silken threads of light drifting slowly to the ground: the bars of a bright cage surrounding children like canaries flapping their wings in hysterical joy. In that chaotic scene they seemed almost likeable, less prideful than usual. I was the only empty-handed child, huddled in a snowy corner. Many years later, Hua Hua told me she’d been watching me, neatly-dressed and aloof, too grand to light a firework. As each rocket soared into the night sky, I laughed and continued muttering to myself.
Chun Chi couldn’t be allowed to find out about me watching the fireworks. We had unspoken rules of conduct; she would have loved for me to be as detached as her, unmoved by things others found pleasure in. And of course she wanted me never to acquire friends, the surest way to disrupt a person’s solitude. She wished my isolation to be complete. I sensed that she preferred the me who had struggled home alone after being abandoned, my body brimming with life-force, like a weed.
When I realised I had slipped into friendship with Hua Hua, I felt I’d let Chun Chi down. Chun Chi was a tightly-wrapped riddle. Since Auntie Lan’s departure, there had been no one to help me unravel it. Now, there was Hua Hua.
Hua Hua was not beautiful, but vivacious. When she smiled, her eyes slanted and the corners of her mouth deepened, which made her prettier. If a girl becomes better-looking when she smiles, then she is unfinished, requiring something outside herself for attractiveness. Because Chun Chi was a complete woman, she remained striking whatever her mood, however melancholy.
When Hua Hua came back into our lives after several years away, she had become elegant, the young-girl awkwardness gone from her face. She told me that a woman with love in her heart will grow more and more beautiful. If she was right, then Chun Chi’s heart must have contained a powerful love; longing made her grow beautiful, and then withered her.
11
The next time Master Zhong came, instead of waiting outside for him, Hua Hua stepped gingerly into the courtyard and stood staring at the gorgeous flowers, the trough full of mysterious seashells. After that, whenever I saw MasterZhong arrive, I slipped silently into the courtyard where Hua Hua would surely be, bent over a flower stalk like a greedy little butterfly sipping nectar, or her sleeves rolled up, pale arms plunged into the water, making the sleeping shells rub against one another, producing little whispering noises that, if we shut our eyes and listened, sounded like they were from another world — rumbling and low, the voice of prophecy.
It may have been nothing, but when Hua Hua and I opened our eyes again, everything seemed coloured with magic. Her eyes wide, she asked, “What did you hear?”
I shook my head and smiled as if to say: the secrets of heaven are not to be revealed. Stung, Hua Hua pouted and stared at the shells in silence.
Inside, I was nowhere near as calm as I strove to appear. Seeing Hua Hua, listening to the music of the seashells, had become a monthly ritual.
If Chun Chi was in the main hall, or if the door to the courtyard happened to be open, I made a gesture to the waiting Hua Hua and she stayed away. Hua Hua never met Chun Chi, although she must have longed to — that divine garden, the prophesying shells: these must have made Chun Chi seem altogether supernatural.
One winter, on a snowy day, I saw Hua Hua outside —studiedly casual, but I knew she was longing for me to come to her. Instead, I remained in the comfortably warm room, waiting for Chun Chi. In front of me, on the eight immortals table, was a pot of dragon’s well tea brewed with clear spring water. The young tea leaves had been picked in March, their fragrance dizzying. Hua Hua sat on a wooden stump, shivering. She stamped her feet, sang softly to herself, and before her hands went numb managed to write my name in the snow with a twig.
Night came, and Chun Chi remained in her room. I gave in and drank the tea myself. It had become cold and bitter, smelling faintly of decay. I thought I must be the saddest person in the world, unmindful of the girl who, at that moment, was walking home on frozen feet, her only comfort the snowflakes caressing her shoulders.
12
Summer. The cicadas’ racket mingled with Hua Hua’s sobbing. She stood outside, howling my name, making so much noise that shoals of flowers were shaken off the locust tree. I ran out to see her slumped at the base of the tree, her body shrouded in white petals.
Hua Hua said her Daddy had taken ill after working through the night. His health had been bad for a few years now. Chun Chi wasn’t at home, so I followed Hua Hua to see how Master Zhong was. It was borne home to me all of a sudden how important he had become to Chun Chi — a door now slowly closing to her. I ran as fast as I could, but Hua Hua was faster yet, a deer sprinting towards the sun.
Master Zhong’s room was furnished with great simplicity, only a wide desk and, pushed into a corner, the couch he was sleeping on. An oil lamp stood on the desk, illuminating the seashells that greeted me like old friends.
I crossed to the bed and bent to see him. He looked as neat as always, unsmirched by illness. All that was left of him was gratitude and concern, as loosely held together as a cloud about to dissolve into rain.
He opened his eyes: a flicker of disappointment that Chun Chi hadn’t come, but then he murmured, “Xiao Xing.” He grabbed my hand with surprising strength, perhaps all he now possessed. “Take care of her. She’s very lonely, you’re all she has.”
I should have nodded, but precisely because I wanted so much to take care of her, I couldn’t admit it, not even to please a dying man. “She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need me in the least.”
“Then you don’t know what she needs.” Master Zhong’s mild rebuke was filled with hurt. “Do you want her to need you? Will you help search for what she needs?”
He was right, I didn’t know what Chun Chi needed. She seemed entirely self-sufficient, as if life had already ended, and only the husk of her
body now walked the earth.
“I will.”
“Come here.”
I sat by the bed, my ear pressed against his soft chin.
“Do you know what Chun Chi does with all those seashells?”
“Fortune-telling?” I remembered Hua Hua’s words.
He shook his head. “She’s never wanted to know the future. It’s only the past she cares about.”
“I didn’t know that.” My heart was beating very fast. Finally, I was approaching Chun Chi’s secret.
“She’s searching for the most important thing in the world to her.”
“What is that?”
“Hua Hua, go wait for the coffin men. I’m talking to Xiao Xing.” Only then, startled by his change of tone, did I realise Hua Hua was standing in the doorway, her head stuck halfway into the room. She pouted, but withdrew. I knew she hadn’t gone far. She wouldn’t miss an opportunity to hear a story about Chun Chi.
And what a story it was. There were several moments in the telling when Master Zhong stopped abruptly, his brows slackening, and I thought he had died. Each time, as I was wondering what to do, he started speaking again. He spoke into the small hours of the morning, his breath faltering, each word costing him a great deal of energy. I let him rest his head on my shoulder.
How full of fond memories the world is. How difficult it would be for anyone to extinguish each of them.
When I felt his body grow cold and stiff, his hump straightening, I knew he was finally at peace. At dawn, I arranged him on the bed. Before leaving, I turned to look at him one last time, the dry old body like a lump of wood left in the ashes of a great fire.
I absorbed his story into myself. I would continue to live and grow, bearing this knowledge, unchanged from the outside.
Hua Hua was waiting for me. She was an orphan now. Master Zhong had only mentioned her right at the end, when he said simply, “Take Hua Hua with you. Take her as your mistress, or as your servant. She has no one else in the world.” He might have been describing an old umbrella. I nodded, and that was all we said about Hua Hua. So easy for an umbrella to change hands.
Hua Hua must have heard his words. When she saw me, her gaze had become humble, worshipful.
13
Following Master Zhong’s instructions, I found the wooden implements inlaid with gold filigree, carved with birds and flowers. I took nothing else; the wooden box they were in would be buried with Master Zhong. After the coffin men had buried him, I packed the last batch of seashells and said to Hua Hua, “Let’s go.”
She nodded, and walked obediently behind me. Master Zhong’s death was the end of her childhood, I realised. I would never hear her girlish laughter again.
I asked the maid to prepare a guest room, but Hua Hua insisted that she would sleep in the servants’ quarters. Her humility was stiff, unnatural to her, almost as if she were sulking. I gave in to her. When she saw me the next morning, she bowed and greeted me, “Young Master. “I asked her to be seated, but without even looking at me she said she had too much housework to do.
And so Hua Hua became my servant, exactly as she wished. Without being asked, she took charge of every aspect of my life: laundry, cooking, cleaning. She wasn’t very good at any of these things, but she put in a lot of effort. She avoided me, and when I sought her out refused to look at me, finding excuses to scurry away as quickly as possible. Annoyed, I tried to find fault with everything she did. She hadn’t changed the sheets quickly enough. The tea was too strong, the soup too bland. Initially, I thought she would answer back, and we could have a fight — but instead, she bore it all with equanimity, no matter how unreasonable I was.
Only when I saw her hiding in the kitchen, tears running down her face, did I feel a twinge in my heart. I decided to let events go as she wished. Perhaps she only felt safe playing this role.
I didn’t have a lot of time to think about Hua Hua’s happiness. I was rushing to finish polishing the shells Master Zhong had left behind, before Chun Chi’s return. He had told me how to do this on his deathbed, and now I had to put his instructions into practice, step by step.
If I could replace Master Zhong completely, then Chun Chi would need me more than anyone else in the world.
On a crisp morning, I sat at a stone table in the courtyard with the cleaned shells before me. From the bag of tools I brought out a long-bladed carving knife and began running it through the deep grooves of a shell. All extraneous matter had to be removed without damaging the pattern in any way. Certain shells such as the quail conch or red cowrie were exceptionally thin and easy to damage. Chun Chi discarded all imperfect shells, no matter how rare. Master Zhong had told me this and I hung on every word, determined to reach his level of skill.
Sometimes, when Hua Hua walked past, she looked at me strangely. Perhaps she found these careful movements familiar, could see the shadow of another person in my bloodshot eyes. She continued to be silent even as she saw me working by lamplight, becoming a person she recognised. As I worked, she stood silently nearby, only coming forward to trim the lamp if she thought the light had grown faint.
Everyone who lived in this house, sooner or later, developed an impenetrable shell.
14
When Chun Chi returned, she quickly realised that there was a girl in the house where no girl had been. Hua Hua brought her tea and couldn’t help staring: such bright eyes, could they really be blind? She reached out a hand and waved it in front of Chun Chi’s face. Unfortunately, Chun Chi’s skin was sensitive enough to pick up even this slight movement.
Chun Chi hated strangers in the house, and here was one not even showing her proper respect. She pushed aside the tea cup so scalding water splashed onto Hua Hua, causing her to scream. No one in this house had ever emitted such a shrill sound. Shouting and sobbing were as forbidden as laughter here. At that moment, Hua Hua must have realised what a mausoleum she was in. Chun Chi summoned the maids and had them remove Hua Hua from the building.
I found Hua Hua shivering in the garden. She begged me not to send her away. Only now, in her fear, did she deign to show herself dependent on me. But I couldn’t afford to anger Chun Chi for her sake. The most I could do was allow Hua Hua to remain outdoors. She spent the night there. When I came out at midnight, she was slumped over the stone trough where we’d first met, sorrowful even in sleep.
I owe Hua Hua more than I’ll ever be able to pay, but I have come to think that this is the way of the world —everyone owed and owing, a circle of obligation linking us head to tail, a kind of fairness.
The next morning, Chun Chi asked me if Master Zhong had delivered the shells. I held up the sack for her to dip her hands into; seeming satisfied, she took them back to her room. I waited outside, on a knife’s edge — would she notice any difference? Pressed against the door, I remembered Master Zhong’s words: when the silence is deepest, Chun Chi is running her fingers over the shells, bringing forth a pleasing tone. I had heard this before, but thought I’d imagined it. Now, it was clear — a thin noise, coming in fits and starts.
Suddenly, Chun Chi pushed the door open. Sensing my presence, she snapped, “Summon Master Zhong. I have words to say to him.”
“Master Zhong became ill and died a month ago,” I calmly replied.
A spasm passed through her whole body. “Were you there at the end?”
“Yes, I went to see him.”
“Did he say anything to you?” She was picking her words with great care.
“Very little. He taught me to clean and polish the shells, so I could take over his work.” This wasn’t the whole truth, but I didn’t think he’d want Chun Chi to know he’d given away her secret.
“Then these shells were polished by you?”
“Yes. I know I haven’t done them well, but I’m working hard. I’ll get better.”
A pause. “I’m tired now. I’m going back inside.” Master Zhong’s departure seemed to have robbed her of all her energy.
“There’s just one more th
ing… the girl who was here yesterday. Master Zhong asked me to take care of her. Can she stay?”
Chun Chi nodded.
It had been a dry summer. Even the day Master Zhong died, although overcast, yielded not a drop of rain. The humidity made everything heavy and still — until Chun Chi’s return seemed to release the dead, and a storm began in earnest.
I found Chun Chi in the long corridor. She had brought a chair out to sit under the eaves, where the gusty rain found her easily. Her chrysanthemum silk robes were soaked. Hearing my footsteps, she shivered. She looked pale and helpless, as fragile as pear blossoms battered by the rain. The sight brought tears to my eyes.
I wanted to speak, help her out of her wet clothes, but something stopped me. I knew now what she wanted. I had to love her as a man, yes, and I knew how to do it.
A pair of reproachful eyes glared from the far corner of the courtyard. I could feel the coolness emanating from them, even through the sheets of rain. When Chun Chi finally went back indoors, I ventured into the back garden and found Hua Hua where the grass was deepest, huddled in rainwater. I tried to help her up but she pushed me away.
Chun Chi said she could stay, I told her. She didn’t express any joy, but went back to her work in the kitchen as if everything was normal. She bore a grudge against Chun Chi from that time on. Even as she had to maintain an outward appearance of humility and servitude, Hua Hua was accumulating resentments the way other girls acquire items for their trousseau.
No woman was more sensitive than Chun Chi. Even without being able to see, she could sense the waves of enmity from Hua Hua. My last days with Chun Chi were spent in this manner, caught between two warring women.
15
In the years after that, Hua Hua noticed that I was becoming like Chun Chi: obsessed with seashells, indifferent to my surroundings, cold towards other people.
I began shutting myself in my room, the doors and windows sealed to keep out even a chink of light. Picking up a polished shell, I closed my eyes and slowly ran my fingers over it. This was a kind of reading that I could only accomplish in utter silence. It took me a long time to learn the necessary detachment and quiet. The slightest sound elsewhere in the house could distract me. I found myself thinking: is Chun Chi still in her room? Has she gone on another journey?