by Zhang Yueran
3
At the time, all Chun Chi owned was a mattress in the dark sleeping chamber, an ink-green blanket printed with sancha flowers, and a pale purple dress, its front stained with something red, perhaps guava or watermelon juice, like a gaping wound.
Whenever someone came to distribute more clothes at the shelter, Chun Chi stood coldly in a corner watching the other refugees jostle, struggling as if to prove there was still life in them. Even this dress was given to her by Tsong Tsong.
After that first time, Tsong Tsong often came to staunch Chun Chi’s bleeding in the night. Perhaps her bed was next to Chun Chi’s? Thinking about it afterwards, Chun Chi couldn’t remember. By the time she woke up, the huge room had emptied. The other women liked to gather in the courtyard to chat the day away, only returning to the backroom to sleep.
Chun Chi went for long walks dawn and dusk. Sometimes she saw Tsong Tsong in the courtyard airing sheets stained with blood or phlegm. She often helped the nurses here, and was liked for it.
Approaching her, Chun Chi saw Tsong Tsong reach up on tiptoe for the drying line. This child was only fifteen or sixteen, a tiny thing, her skin so fine and pale you could hardly tell she was Chinese. She had a kind of wild beauty that caught hold of you. Stretching to dry the clothes, her supple body pulled apart, like a peach tree bursting into blossom. Life force spilled from her like pollen. Walking past quietly, Chun Chi felt Tsong Tsong smiling, but couldn’t respond because she didn’t remember her name.
One afternoon, the two of them stood under the eaves, watching the other women squabbling over old clothes. They were the only two not joining the fray. Instead, they exchanged a friendly glance, conspiratorial. Tsong Tsong fixed Chun Chi with a look: wait here. With that, she strode towards the tussling women.
In the scorching afternoon heat, a haze of water vapour rose from the ground. Tsong Tsong’s little feet seemed to float through the mist, her shapely back like a fairy riding the clouds. The fairy landed amongst the aggressive women, and joined in the fight. This mild-mannered girl was suddenly a fishwife, grabbing an older woman by her hair, pushing her neck down like a water pump, her other hand prising a dress from the other woman’s grip. The strength she displayed was astonishing, completely at odds with her delicate appearance.
They hit her back, of course, twisted her ears, pinched her arms, dug their nails into her face, but she was like a warrior in the face of battle, not even allowing herself to display pain. Others came to her aid. She normally seemed quiet, self-contained, but had somehow gained the support of a horde of women who dashed like spinning tops with her as their whip. She could have made the whole world spin around her.
Outnumbered, Tsong Tsong’s rivals backed away. The woman she’d been struggling with walked up to her and offered her the dress. Tsong Tsong calmly took it, as her due. She hadn’t once reached up to wipe the blood off her face.
Her helpers scattered without waiting for thanks, as if this had happened before and would happen again. Everything was bright as Tsong Tsong walked back to Chun Chi — her smiling eyes, her blood-streaked cheeks, and that purple dress.
The girl reached Chun Chi and, when her breath returned, said, “For you.”
“Me?”
“Purple suits you.”
The dress landed in Chun Chi’s arms like a little bird. She gripped it tight, afraid it might fly off. Her surprise turned to unease. She wavered, then reached out to clean Tsong Tsong’s face. Some of the cuts had gone right through the skin, the naked flesh below pumping out blood. Chun Chi panicked at the sight of the bleeding, the wounds spreading like fire. She dabbed uselessly at it.
Tsong Tsong was the first person to be kind to Chun Chi after she’d lost her memory, but this wasn’t always a pleasant experience. Not knowing anything about her past, Chun Chi often felt helpless, in need of someone to be close to her, to love her. But now the wounds burning in Tsong Tsong’s face left her at a loss. She didn’t know what she could give Tsong Tsong in return.
4
Tsong Tsong was a wild girl. Her parents were both dead. She roamed Lian Yan Island, sometimes staying at the church, sometimes at the refugee shelter. No one knew where she would be from one day to the next, not even she herself.
Many people would have liked to know her whereabouts, though. She was too beautiful a creature, more colourful and lively than the jungle. Perhaps Chun Chi should have felt fortunate, for this exotic thing to have landed by her side, staying by her day and night — something to be envied. Tsong Tsong relied on Chun Chi, climbing into her bed at night and hugging her. “Sleep.” And saying that, Tsong Tsong’s own eyes slid contentedly shut.
The tropical night, even when sea breezes blow, can be uncomfortably warm. Tsong Tsong swam amongst the sheets, her limbs flailing, her breathing deep, her mouth open. At times she clutched Chun Chi and murmured something indistinct. On such nights, Chun Chi, startled awake, found the girl hooked around her like a climbing animal, her face full of nightmares.
Chun Chi stroked the girl’s cheek. She was sleeping so soundly, this wouldn’t wake her. The girl was her doll. Chun Chi had to admit that she was jealous of Tsong Tsong. No matter how she tried to control this terrible feeling, whenever she saw anyone attracted to Tsong Tsong’s beauty, she had to get away. She had Tsong Tsong’s regard — they stood apart from the crowd — but Tsong Tsong would never understand Chun Chi’s pain. She looked at her doll again, and gently pulled the blanket over her head. She wished the world wouldn’t look at her brilliant girl, that she were the only one who recognised this beauty. If only her beauty weren’t so startling — if it were natural, like flowing water and trees, or tranquil as an exquisite vase in an alcove, it wouldn’t have caused Chun Chi such anxiety.
In the morning, Chun Chi woke to find Tsong Tsong already sitting on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around her legs, staring at her. She stroked Chin Chi’s bloody feet. “What a shame you don’t remember your past. I’m sure it’s a thrilling story — these red feet are proof.”
“Are they still hot?” asked Chun Chi. She seldom touched those feet; they hardly seemed to belong to her.
“Yes. Your whole body is boiling. That’s why your nose bleeds. You’re a volcano.”
“Aren’t you worried I’ll erupt?”
“Never. I love your heat, Red Child.” This was Tsong Tsong’s nickname for her.
Tsong Tsong’s warmth was not for everyone, she only shared it with Chun Chi. Mostly, her tiny body contained a surprising amount of destructiveness. Even though she had once been a ward of the church, she hated Christianity with a frightening vehemence. When Chun Chi said she’d like very much to go and pray for her memories to come back, Tsong Tsong sneered, “Don’t talk like that in front of me. There is no God. When I lived in the church, not a day passed when I didn’t want to burn it to ashes.”
The disdain in her smile made Chun Chi shiver. She saw Tsong Tsong’s canines flash: red strands of betel nut, like bloody flesh in a tiger’s teeth.
Tsong Tsong liked to spend time with the song-girls, who reciprocated by teaching her to sing. Her voice was deep and a little sandy, which made her singing style distinctive. The women encouraged her to come live on the boats with them; a beauty like her would quickly become popular. They told her how full shipboard life could be, how she’d never be bored again, how much she would earn. But Tsong Tsong was unmoved by praise or money; only the thought of a new life held appeal.
Late at night, she whispered to Chun Chi, “We could go together, live on the sea, singing. What do you think?”
“I don’t want to go. Don’t ask me to explain why. I don’t like those women.”
“Singing all day, drinking wine, living freely. It’s a good life.”
“I want a stable life, with my own house, a garden full of flowers, close to the water. I want to walk on the beach and feel the sea breeze in the evening.”
“I’ll remember this.”
“What will you remember?” said C
hun Chi suspiciously.
“I’ll remember the kind of life you want. And one day I’ll give it to you.”
Chun Chi was moved, but a little shocked. These words should have been spoken by a man, but here they were coming out of Tsong Tsong’s mouth. Tsong Tsong may not be a weak and helpless maiden, but she was still a girl. She should be spoilt and coddled by someone, not taking on the burden of protecting Chun Chi.
Follow the spiral staircase all the way down. This buried kingdom isn’t hell. Keep going, until the sound of wind fills your ears and dust blinds your eyes and vines still your feet. Only then will the memory-keepers appear.
The pottery-lined streets of Binondo were full of harried housewives, children howling fit to burst their lungs, and the overbearing red-haired devils from abroad.
They say that “Binondo” is the Spanish word for a den of ruffians. This small settlement on the banks of the Pasig River could only follow the current of the great river of history, and by the time it fell into the hands of the red devils, had more or less come apart. The barbarians picked those amongst the local people whom they thought could control the others, or perhaps we should say “oppress”, for these weak, fearful “chieftains”, fuelled by petty desires, were bloated by power until their faces grew to resemble those of their conquerors. Slavery and death became the long whips they wielded, and their legs were soaked with the blood of their kinsmen.
The long-plotted uprising exploded on a close, heavy evening. Before leaving, the Spanish handed the arms over to the “chieftains” and told them, “It’s in your hands now. This place could do with being cleaned up.”
The rebels were far stronger and angrier than anyone had imagined. When their leader was captured, the “chieftains” had him burnt, tied to a stake with his feet in a fire that roared up his body, one inch of flesh at a time. The watching crowds cried out in terror; the weaker ones ran away rather than be forced to watch. The rebels were defeated. Even with their leader’s blackened skeleton dangling in the air, somehow still a symbol of resistance, they knelt before the “chieftains” to beg for mercy.
Most people assumed that would be the end of the uprising, but the fire thought otherwise. Not satisfied with having burnt the rebel leader, with a great whoop it leapt from the scaffolding and rampaged through the overspilling marketplaces of Binondo, right up to the lonely Pisag River. Those who surrendered had to pay the price for their weakness. The impure had to be cleansed.
The conflagration lasted seven days. Even rain could not stop it. Binondo was destroyed. Birds of prey circled overhead, wheeling down to swipe a mouthful of burnt flesh from the black hanging figure. The colonialists didn’t spend too much time grieving over the tragedy — they rebuilt the town. Everything was new — a new leader, new laws, new citizens. Only the name “Binondo” remained the same.
5
Chun Chi ran away to prove to herself how little Tsong Tsong’s promise meant to her.
It wasn’t as if the day hadn’t been preceded by bad omens. The previous night, Tsong Tsong had suffered one bad dream after another. Waking up, she saw the sky dark, a storm brewing. Chun Chi had abandoned her to go for a solitary walk. Her behaviour had been strange lately, going out alone and returning only at dinnertime, her expression troubled. Tsong Tsong assumed she was just worried about her amnesia.
Halfway through dinner, Chun Chi got up and walked off. Tsong Tsong didn’t follow her — something she would regret for the rest of her life — because she was listening to a song-girl talk about life on the boats. Their days here were dull, listening to the endless adventures of the song-girls the only available amusement.
Chun Chi had disappeared by the time Tsong Tsong returned to the sleeping area. Feeling the pillow they’d shared so many nights, Tsong Tsong found a warm patch of damp. Tear-stains.
She ran out into the courtyard. At the far end of the corridor, she could just make out Chun Chi’s long, skinny back, a streak of mist fading into the sunset clouds. She called out as loudly as she could, but the mist had evaporated, leaving no trace behind.
Still wearing the dress Tsong Tsong had snatched for her, Tsong Tsong’s promise still lingering in her ears, Chun Chi held the man’s hand and fled with him. She must have heard Tsong Tsong calling her name, a lung-splitting cry, impossible for even the crashing rain to drown out. How could she turn her back on the sadness in that voice? March on that small island was a season of sudden storms, and the air stank of betrayal.
Someone saw a man running through the temple doors, Chun Chi’s hand in his. The song-girls chattered like birds: so the ugliest girl was also the most scheming, to have snared a man so quickly. The eye-witness described the man: skin the colour of bronze, spreading shoulders, densely-bearded chin —
“Huh. Not bad at all,” sighed the women, their voices sour. No one noticed Tsong Tsong, sitting in a corner, exquisitely tortured. She might have been on a bed of nails. She hated Chun Chi. She would never stop searching for Chun Chi.
The first Chinese ship after the tsunami arrived on the island in April. The song-girls joyously bid the other refugees farewell. They urged Tsong Tsong to come onboard with them, just for a few days. She was reluctant, but she wanted the money. They told her how easy it would be.
A secret sense seemed to lead her, whispering: if you keep your promise to Chun Chi, she’ll come back to you.
6
She met all kinds of men on the ship: sailors, foreign officials, eunuchs, scholars — each of them conquered byher beauty, that half-wild quality that made every man raise an imaginary hunting rifle. They worshipped her deep, sandy singing voice. She was high above the other song-girls, precious because she could induce fear in men. When she sang on stage, all eyes were on her, rapt. No one thought she was for sale. The clients felt protective of her; hardly anyone tried to get her drunk or treat her roughly.
Life on the boat was chaotic and withered the spirit, but Tsong Tsong kept herself rigidly in check. The passengers all knew this extraordinary beauty was virtuous, selling her songs but not herself, no matter how aristocratic the customer or how high the price. The song-girls couldn’t help admiring her for this, but they knew denial like this comes not from morality, but the body. Tsong Tsong couldn’t convince her body to receive a man. Whenever she imagined it, a man over her like a canopy, like being buried alive — it was too much, no matter how handsome or kind the man, once he became a blanket of desire suffocating her, he’d be no different to any other.
Perversely, even though Tsong Tsong was born to hate men, they became infatuated with her. She came to enjoy the sensation of living in a world that praised and coddled her every minute of the day.
In just a few months, Tsong Tsong became the queen of the boat-maidens. She enjoyed this life, especially the daily drinking that allowed her to escape the entanglement of thought. She slept well at night, Chun Chi locked outside her dreams.
Yet before the drink took hold, she told herself: Chun Chi will come back. All you have to do now is get enough money together to make her dream come true.
The old Tsong Tsong would have scorned dainty women’s things. Now she acquired a little brocade purse. When customers showed their appreciation, the money was carefully deposited in that purse, all of it except for the share she had to hand over to the Madame. Each morning she took it from under her pillow and shook it to make the coins clink, the musical sound seeming to fill the gaps in her heart. A kind of satisfaction took hold of her, and a new day began.
Lian Yan Island’s east coast had escaped the fury of the great wave. Its beach remained unspoilt, its vegetation lush. Tsong Tsong thought how fine it would be, to build their house there. She found an abandoned boat, two storeys high, portholes surrounded by carved lilies and carp, and persuaded some sailors to help her turn it into a little cottage. Whenever the merchant ships brought her back to the island, Tsong Tsong headed to the boat-house, and each time added something from her travels: Chinese pottery, a Persian carpet, Indian
sari-silk — things that girls liked.
She marked out a little garden extending ten yards from the house, and tended it carefully. On a faraway island she found some Mandala flowers, and managed to keep them alive all the voyage back. They thrived in the damp, rich soil and quickly reached a couple of feet in height. Opening the front door, the first thing she saw was their funnel-shaped flowers, drooping like little lanterns. Before she could take them all in, their heady scent would overwhelm her.
She liked to lie in the middle of the garden with her eyes closed, feeling the flowers close by, so warm and soft, it made Tsong Tsong think of her. The name ‘Chun Chi’ escaped from her constricted throat like a bird. She said out loud, “These are the Mandala flowers you liked. Everything is here for you. It’s time for you to come back.”
7
But still Chun Chi stayed away. The boat-house became a place to be feared. Whenever Tsong Tsong came back, she lay amongst the Mandala flowers — and every time, just as she was about to fall asleep, she saw Chun Chi walking into the garden, each flower quivering as she brushed past, moving endlessly until everything was shaking, blurring her vision, nothing calm again until Chun Chi had vanished once more.
Tsong Tsong preferred to spend time on the boats, squandering her life in great handfuls with wine and company. At least this kept her warm.
She began making her own wine — out of palm nuts, out of rice, and her favourite, coconut. All the song-girls did this, but Tsong Tsong’s wine had a unique richness. She simmered coconut-flower petals until white bubbles formed on the surface of the reduced liquid, and boiled it hard to make clear coconut liquor. But she had a little trick — she’d also distilled some Mandala blossoms, and during the fermentation dropped in a little of the fragrant syrup. The coconut wine she made in this way was extraordinary. The passengers were enchanted by it, reluctant to leave at the end of their journey.