A Concubine for the Family: A Family Saga in China (4 page)

“Aiya, my little heart-and-liver.” Purple Jade grabbed her daughter’s hand. “You are so careless. Orchid, fetch me some fresh water.” She noticed the cut on her daughter’s finger. “Where did your young mistress get that nasty cut?” she asked Peony.

“Uh, uh . . .” Peony twisted the corner of her cotton tunic. “Young mistress was making a bamboo whistle by the back garden.”

“Why weren’t you studying the
Three Character Book
I assigned you?”

Silver Bell felt her cheeks burn. Golden Bell hastened to comment: “
M-ma
, you really must send Silver Bell to the school room. She’s running wild like an animal.”

“I suppose you’ve been studying the
Five Classics
and the
Four Books
all morning?” her mother responded with a sidelong glance. “You know I don’t like your Western learning in the school room. Your father promised to tutor you in the classics. When did you have your last lesson?”

“Last Wednesday, I think. He’s been so busy in the council.”

Orchid brought in a basin of water and placed it on the rosewood night table. She then took out her mistress’s box of Chinese medicines. Purple Jade always took an interest in the ancient arts of acupuncture and herbal medicines. Everyone in the household went to her for their ailments: headaches, menstrual cramps, muscle strains, stomachaches and various cuts and bruises. Leaning on Orchid, Purple Jade wobbled over and took out some alcohol to rinse Silver Bell’s finger.

“Ouch, ouch! It hurts!”

“A Western education may be useful in the West, but it is courting disaster to have a Western mind and a Chinese body! Who would marry such a girl?” Purple Jade lapsed into her usual complaint.

“Miss Tyler is not married,” Golden Bell said. “She doesn’t need approval from any man!”

“But you’re Chinese!” She rubbed Silver Bell’s finger with more alcohol.

“Ouch!”

“Never forget who you are. We have no sons! Your first duty is toward your family. If no one wants to marry you and take our name . . .” The thought was too repugnant; she took a deep breath. “Without an heir, who will burn incense and make monthly offerings before our ancestral tablets at home and in our village temple? This family will be the laughingstock of the whole region. Hai, the West Ocean barbarians are so strange.” Purple Jade looked up from the basin to collect her thoughts. “When I first met your Miss Tai . . . Tai . . .” She could not pronounce the name.

“Tai-lar!” Orchid offered.

“Oh yes, Tai-Lar, ‘Spicy-Too-Hot!’” Purple Jade smiled as she translated Miss Tyler’s name into Chinese. Everyone laughed except Golden Bell.

“Your Miss Spicy-Too-Hot was such a frightful sight. With that red curly hair, blue eyes and enormous nose, she looked like the devil herself!”

“Oh
M-ma
, Miss Tyler is so kind! She has taught Iris at no extra charge,” Golden Bell said.

“Iris is good company for you.” Purple Jade wiped Silver Bell’s hand. She turned toward Iris. “Don’t let your fancy education turn your head. There are plenty of sing-song girls who know English and are working in the Shanghai bars.”

Orchid brought a clean strip of silk, and Purple Jade wrapped it around her daughter’s finger.

“Orchid, take Peony and her mistress to fetch the silkworm eggs. Make sure you don’t go out the back door!” She wagged a finger at the two maids and Silver Bell.

As Purple Jade wobbled back to her writing table, Iris hurried to her side. Purple Jade leaned on Iris’s arm, saying: “I must admit, your Miss Spicy-Too-Hot is rather gracious for a West Ocean barbarian. She spoke Chinese to me very properly, though she had to think of the east and west before she said anything.”

The sight of her mother toddling with the help of a maid always made Golden Bell want to turn away, but she did not. She wanted to say Westerners were not cruel. They would never bind women’s feet. She sensed that would be going for her mother’s jugular. She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I’ve learned so much from her, M-ma,” she said. “Please invite her to Father’s birthday party.”

“I suppose there is no harm in that.” Her mother nodded. “It will please your father. I have used all my influence to keep you at home, away from that missionary school. Imagine, a daughter from this book-fragrant family going to school with orphans, children of peasants and common shopkeepers!”

The ink was running dry. Purple Jade dribbled a few more drops of water onto the inkstone. While her right hand rubbed the ink stick against the stone, her left hand held the wide cuff of her jacket away. Although women in the big cities were wearing silk stockings and
cheongsams
— the sleek, shapely, ankle-length sheaths with daring side slits — Purple Jade dressed her daughters and herself in the fashions of traditional, comfortable elegance.

Golden Bell saw an opportunity to bring up a new topic. “Oh,
M-ma
, have you prepared a present for Father yet? His birthday is only three months away!”

“Not really. I have some ideas.” Her mother picked up the brush again and mixed the thick, pasty ink. At last she began her guest list: the Huang family relatives, the Chous (her relatives), members and associates of the legislative council, the friends and classmates of her husband from his Shanghai student days at St. John’s University.

“Some will come from far away, from Beijing,” she said. “They will need housing in the family compound and elsewhere in town.’ She made a mark to remind herself to speak to her husband and the accountant about housing.

“
M-ma
.” Golden Bell edged close to her mother’s desk. “May I go into town to buy a fountain pen for Father? It is so much easier than writing with brush and inkstone.”

“Aiya, is that what your Miss Spicy-Too-Hot is teaching you?” Her mother laid down her brush. “The virtue of writing lies in the art and the thought. What does convenience have to do with it? Write a Chinese poem for your father. It will mean more to him than anything you can buy!”

“Oh,
M-ma
, you never want anyone to have any fun.” Golden Bell stamped her foot. “You don’t understand anything!” She fled. She was afraid more hurtful words would escape her lips.

In the back garden, clusters of whispering servants gathered around the master of the house. They consulted with the gardener and the accountant about the body from the river. What should they do about its interment? Was she an orphan from the missionary school? They must start the inquiry.

“The river brings another body,” an elderly servant hissed. “The old Huang household in town never sees such horrors.”

“People don’t kill when they’re not starving,” another whispered.

“Must be a suicide!”

Others shuffled their feet, dragging on their cigarettes. Ripples of smoke and murmuring voices rose amongst them.

Huang Righteous Virtue was five feet eight inches tall, though he looked much taller because of his erect bearing and lanky build. He stood at least half a head taller than the men around him. He wore an ankle-length silk gown in a straight cut, with side slits reaching above his knees. The blue gown had a soft, high mandarin collar set off by cream-colored cuffs and trousers. His hair was graying near the temples. It softened the effect of his dense dark brows and sharp flashing eyes.

It was rumored that when Righteous Virtue returned to his ancestral home after his graduation from St. John’s University in Shanghai, he refused to accept Chou Purple Jade — the bride his father had selected. To induce his compliance, his father had given him permission to establish a household of his own. This was a radical departure from tradition. Purple Jade’s father offered him land beside a causeway of West Lake, and Righteous Virtue began his marriage building their house of three courts; it adjoined the large Chou family garden.

When Orchid, Silver Bell and Peony emerged from the workroom, the master saw them. “What are you doing here, Silver Bell?”

“Morning peace, Father. We’re taking the silkworm eggs to the cold house.” Silver Bell held up the sheets.

“Go to it quickly!” Her father frowned and waved her on with a sweep of his wide sleeve. “Tell your mother not to worry; everything is under control.”

Silver Bell and Peony left. Orchid trailed behind them hoping to glean some information. She felt a sharp tug at her tunic. The chauffeur, Ah Lee, was beside her. He smiled and reached for her hand. “Follow me!”

Orchid blushed. She withdrew her hand and hugged her sides. She decided to follow Ah Lee at a respectable distance.

The chauffeur had learned to drive from his European master in Shanghai. He stood almost six feet tall. While the other male servants wore dark, Chinese-style cotton jackets and baggy pants, Ah Lee donned a Western chauffeur’s uniform of crisp black wool. With a cigarette on his lips, he was the cynosure of the servants’ quarters.

Orchid remained beyond his reach. Ah Lee had found out that Orchid had come from a family of itinerant beggars. When she was only five years old, Purple Jade happened to see her gnawing on a tree trunk and bought her. When Purple Jade married, Orchid came into the Huang household as part of her dowry. The mistress of the house had taught her embroidery, reading, writing and all the fine manners of a lady. Ah Lee admired her unassuming grace. He found her slim figure, her unusually large round eyes, and glowing cheeks most alluring.

Ah Lee led Orchid out the back door toward the bamboo groves. No breeze stirred the leaves. The eerie stillness heightened Orchid’s anxiety. News of the dead girl must have driven away all the pleasure boats in the area. The river flowed like a graphite sheet. The morning mist over the water had thickened. It blurred all perspective of depth.

Orchid felt her chest tighten and her breath grow short when they approached. The body lay in a tangle of fishing nets that the servants had used to bring her ashore.

No one had thought to close the drowned girl’s eyes. Orchid stifled a scream. She ran to the other side of the bamboo grove, hid her face and cried. Before she knew it, Ah Lee had wrapped his arms around her and turned her toward him. He held her with one arm, murmuring words of comfort and whispering endearments. His other hand slipped under her tunic and sought her breasts. Orchid wore a tight undervest, buttoned in front. The chauffeur fumbled with the buttons but they would not yield. He heaved with frustration and gave up on the vest.

Ah Lee’s hand felt big and warm against Orchid’s spine. His caresses spread strange sensations into all the secret places she had long ignored. The excitement was so intense she could hardly breathe. This was the first time she had been held by a man. Her heart raced, thumping against her ribs. She felt a strange tickling in her inner chest wall. A giddy warmth arose from her womb, flooding her breasts; it reached her face, and flushed her cheeks.

Her trembling further excited Ah Lee. He squeezed her breasts and leaned deep into her face. He kissed her eyes; his tongue worked all over her cheeks, playing in her mouth. He pushed his hips into her body. Squeezing Orchid ever closer, he circled one leg around her slim figure. He started to pull the drawstrings on Orchid’s trousers and cursed when he couldn’t untangle the knot with one hand.

Orchid smelled his hot breath. Being so much shorter, she was tucked under Ah Lee’s sweaty armpit. His wool clothes reeked of perspiration and cigarette smoke. Something deep inside her balked. She awakened as if from a trance, and her whole body stiffened. She could not move her arms or legs. In her mind’s eye she saw the dark slimy eyes of the dead girl. The roving tongue in her mouth filled her with nausea. Her stomach churned; vomit surged up her throat and gushed over both of them. She jerked away.

Ah Lee blanched. He spat, cursed and pushed her away. “You country bumpkin! A swine! No one in Shanghai would be so disgusting!”

Orchid felt faint and ashamed. She wailed and sat trembling on the ground.

They heard people coming. Ah Lee cursed more loudly. He ran and wiped his clothes with bamboo leaves. He fled to the servants’ quarters through another back door.

Orchid’s face felt hot. She squeezed herself into the thick of the bamboo grove. Hidden among the tall canes, she watched as several men untangled the corpse from the fishing net.

A susurrus of dismay rustled through the group.

“The chauffeur said the West Ocean Devils do not condone suicide,” pronounced a gruff voice.

“Strange that this girl is wearing the missionary school uniform.”

“The East Ocean Devils getting near?”

“The Japanese already bombed Shanghai. We drove them away!”

“They rape and kill women who don’t give in!”

“They’re not in Shanghai; they’re still far north — in Manchuria, I think.”

They closed the dead girl’s eyes, and covered her with an old cloth. Placing her on a stretcher, they carried her toward the servants’ door.

Alone once more, Orchid brushed off her soiled tunic. She had learned her propriety from being the hands and feet of Purple Jade. The chauffeur made her feel trampled and unclean. She wished she could tell her mistress about Ah Lee, but she knew she must not. After all, she was only a servant. Why had she allowed herself to be led out the back door? The chauffeur could deny everything, or worse, accuse her of seducing him. Surely tongues would wag then.

Orchid stole back to her room to wash and change. The main courts of the house were deserted. The housemaids who usually dusted the rosewood furniture and swept the courtyards in the morning were absent. Everyone had retreated to the kitchen and the servants’ quarters to gossip about the corpse. Orchid resolved never to look at the chauffeur again.