Snow Flower and the Secret Fan (20 page)

That about sums up how things were for me—not too bad, not too good, just the usual way. Lady Lu was fair; I was obedient and willing to learn. In other words, we each understood what was expected of us and did our best to fulfill our obligations. So, for example, on the second day of the first New Year after my wedding, my mother-in-law invited all of Tongkou’s unmarried girls and all of the girls who, like me, had recently married into the village to pay a visit. She provided tea and treats. She was polite and gracious. When everyone left, we went with them. We visited five households that day, and I met five new daughters-in-law. If I hadn’t already been Snow Flower’s
laotong,
I might have searched their faces, looking for those who might want to form a post-marriage sworn sisterhood.

THE FIRST TIME
Snow Flower and I met again was for our annual visit to the Temple of Gupo. You would think we would have had much to say, but we were both subdued. I believed her to be remorseful—about having lied to me all those years and about her low marriage. But I too felt uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to discuss my feelings about my mother without reminding Snow Flower of her own deceit. If these secrets weren’t enough to stifle conversation, we now had husbands and did things with them that were very embarrassing. It was bad enough when our fathers-in-law listened at the door or our mothers-in-law checked the bedding in the morning. Still, Snow Flower and I had to discuss something, and it felt safer to talk about our duty to get pregnant than to delve into those other thorny subjects.

We spoke delicately about the essential elements that must be in place for a baby to take hold and whether or not our husbands obeyed these rituals. Everyone knows that the human body is a miniature version of the universe—the eyes and ears are the sun and moon, breath is air, blood is rain. Conversely, those elements play important roles in the development of a baby. Since this is so, bed business shouldn’t take place when rain pours off the roof, because it will cause a baby to feel trapped and confined. It shouldn’t take place during thunderstorms, which will cause a baby to develop feelings of destruction and fear. And it shouldn’t take place when the husband or wife is distressed, which will cause those dark spirits to carry over to the next generation.

“I have heard that you should not do bed business after too much hard work,” Snow Flower told me, “but I don’t believe that my mother-in-law has heard that.” She looked exhausted. I felt the same way after visiting my husband’s home—from the nonstop labor, from being polite, and from always being watched.

“This is the one rule my mother-in-law doesn’t respect either,” I commiserated. “Haven’t they heard an exhausted well yields no water?”

We shook our heads at the nature of mothers-in-law, but we also worried that if we did become pregnant we might not have healthy or intelligent sons.

“Aunt told me the best time to get pregnant,” I said. Although all her babies had died except for Beautiful Moon, we still trusted Aunt’s expertise in this regard. “There can be no unpleasantness in your life.”

“I know.” Snow Flower sighed. “When water is still, the fish breathes with ease; when wind is gone, the tree stands firm,” she recited.

“We each need a quiet night when the moon is full and bright, which suggests both the roundness of a pregnant belly and the purity of the mother.”

“And when the sky is clear,” Snow Flower added, “which tells us that the universe is calm and ready.”

“And we and our husbands are happy, which will let the arrow fly to its target. Under these circumstances, Aunt says, even the most deadly of insects will come out to mate.”

“I know what needs to occur”—Snow Flower sighed again—“but these things are hard to align at one time.”

“But we must try.”

And so, on our first visit to the Temple of Gupo after our marriages, Snow Flower and I made offerings and prayed that these things would come to pass. However, despite following the rules, we didn’t become pregnant. You think it’s easy to get pregnant after doing bed business only a handful of times a year? Sometimes my husband was so eager that his essence did not go inside.

During our second visit to the temple after becoming wives, our prayers were deeper and our offerings greater. Then, as was our custom, Snow Flower and I visited the taro man for our special chicken lunch followed by our favorite dessert. As much as we both loved that dish, neither of us ate with enjoyment. We compared notes and tried to come up with new tactics to become pregnant.

Over the following months, I did my best to please my mother-in-law when I visited the Lu household. In my natal home, I tried to be as congenial as possible. But no matter where I was, people were beginning to give me looks that I read as admonishments for my lack of fertility. Then, a couple of months later, Madame Wang delivered a letter from Snow Flower. I waited until the matchmaker left before unfolding the paper. In
nu shu,
Snow Flower had written:

I am pregnant. I am sick to my stomach every day. My mother tells me this means the baby is happy in my body. I hope it is a boy. I want this to happen to you.

I couldn’t believe that Snow Flower had beaten me. I was the one with the higher status. I should have gotten pregnant first. So deep was my humiliation that I didn’t tell Mama or Aunt the good news. I knew how they would react. Mama would criticize me, while Aunt would be too joyous on Snow Flower’s behalf.

The next time I visited my husband and we did bed business, I wrapped my legs around his and held him on top of me with my arms until he was done. I held him for so long that he fell asleep limp inside of me. I lay awake for a long time, breathing calmly, thinking of the full moon outside and listening for any rustling in the bamboo beside our window. In the morning, he had rolled away from me and was sleeping on his side. By now I knew what had to be done. I reached under the quilt and placed my hand around his member until it was hard. When I was certain he was about to open his eyes, I withdrew my hand and closed my own eyes. I let him do his business again, and when he rose and dressed to begin his day I stayed very still. We heard his mother in the kitchen, beginning the tasks that I should have done already. My husband looked at me once, sending a loud message: If I didn’t get up soon and begin my chores, there would be serious consequences. He didn’t yell at me or hit me as some husbands might, but he left the room without saying goodbye. I heard the low murmurs of his and his mother’s voices a few moments later. No one came for me. When I finally rose, dressed, and went into the kitchen, my mother-in-law smiled happily, while Yonggang and the other girls exchanged knowing glances.

Two weeks later, back in my own bed in my natal home, I woke up feeling as though fox spirits were shaking the house. I made it to the half-filled chamber pot and threw up. Aunt came into the room, knelt down beside me, and wiped away the dampness on my face with the back of her hand. “Now you really will be leaving us,” she said, and for the first time in a very long while the great cave of her mouth spread into a wide grin.

That afternoon I sat down with my ink and brush and composed a letter to Snow Flower. “When we see each other this year at the Temple of Gupo,” I wrote, “we will both be as round as the moon.”

MAMA, AS YOU
can imagine, was as strict with me during those months as she had been during my footbinding. It was her way, I think, to consider only the bad things that could happen. “Don’t climb hills,” she chastised me, as though I had ever been allowed to do that. “Don’t cross a narrow bridge, stand on one foot, watch an eclipse, or bathe in hot water.” I was never in danger of doing any of those things, but the food restrictions were a different matter. In our county we are proud of our spicy food, but I was not permitted to eat anything seasoned with garlic, chilies, or pepper, which could delay the delivery of my placenta. I was not allowed to eat any part of a lamb, which could cause my baby to be born sickly, or eat fish with scales, since this would cause a difficult labor. I was denied anything too salty, too bitter, too sweet, too sour, or too pungent, so I couldn’t eat fermented black beans, bitter melon, almond curd, hot and sour soup, or anything remotely flavored. I was permitted bland soups, sautéed vegetables with rice, and tea. I accepted these limitations, knowing that my worth was based entirely on the child growing inside of me.

My husband and in-laws were delighted, of course, and they began to prepare for my arrival. My baby was due at the end of the seventh lunar month. I would visit the annual festival at the Temple of Gupo to pray for a son and then travel on to Tongkou. My in-laws agreed to this pilgrimage—they would do everything they could to ensure a male heir—on condition that I spend the night at an inn and not overtax myself. My husband’s family sent a palanquin to pick me up. I stood outside my family’s threshold and accepted everyone’s tears and embraces; then I got in the palanquin and was carried away, knowing I would return again and again in coming years for the Catching Cool Breezes, Ghost, Birds, and Tasting festivals, as well as any celebrations that might happen in my natal family. This was not a final goodbye, just a temporary farewell, as it had been for Elder Sister.

By this time, Snow Flower, who was further along in her pregnancy than I, already lived in Jintian, so I picked her up. Her stomach was so big, I couldn’t believe her new family was allowing her to travel at all, even if it was to pray for a son. We were funny, standing in the dirt, trying to hug each other with our big bellies between us, laughing the whole while. She was more beautiful than in all the years I had known her, and true happiness seemed to pulsate from her.

Snow Flower talked during the entire trip to the temple, speaking of how her body felt, how she loved the baby inside her, and how kind everyone had been to her since she’d moved into her husband’s home. She clutched a piece of white jade that hung around her neck to help give the baby’s skin the clear pale color of the stone, instead of the ruddy complexion of her husband. I also wore white jade, but unlike Snow Flower, I hoped it would protect my child not from my husband’s skin tone but from my own, which, even though I spent my days inside, was naturally darker than the creamy white of my
laotong
’s.

In years past we’d quickly visited the temple, bowing and putting our heads to the floor as we made supplications to the goddess. Now we walked in proudly, sticking out our round baby bellies, glancing at the other mothers-to-be to see who was larger, who carried high and who carried low, yet always mindful that our minds and tongues should carry only noble and benevolent thoughts so these attributes would be passed on to our sons.

We made our way to the altar, where perhaps a hundred pairs of infant shoes were lined up. Both of us had written poems on fans as offerings to the goddess. Mine spoke of the blessings of a son, how he would carry on the Lu line and cherish his ancestors. I ended with,
Goddess, your goodness graces us. So many come to you to beg for sons, but I hope you will hear my plea. Please grant my desire.
That had seemed appropriate when I had written it, but now I imagined what Snow Flower had done with her fan. It had to be filled with lovely words and memorable decorations. I prayed that the goddess would not be too swayed by Snow Flower’s offering. “Please hear me, please hear me, please hear me,” I chanted under my breath.

Together Snow Flower and I laid our fans on the altar with our right hands, while with our left hands we each snatched a pair of the baby shoes from the altar and hid them in our sleeves. We then left the temple quickly, hoping not to be caught. In Yongming County, all women who want a healthy child steal outright—but with the pretense of covertness—a pair of shoes from the goddess’s altar. Why? As you know, in our dialect the word for
shoe
sounds the same as the word for
child.
When our babies are born we return a pair of shoes to the altar—which explains the supply that we stole from—and make offerings as thanks.

We stepped back outside into the beautiful day and made our way to the thread kiosk. As we had for twelve years, we searched for colors that we felt would capture the ideas for the designs we had in our minds. Snow Flower held out a selection of greens for me to examine. Here were greens bright as spring, dry as withered grass, earthy as leaves at the end of summer, vibrant as moss after a rain, dull as that moment before the yellows and reds of fall begin to set in.

“Tomorrow,” Snow Flower said, “let’s stop by the river on our way home. We’ll sit and watch the clouds drift by overhead, listen to the water wash the stones, and embroider and sing together. In this way our sons will be born with elegant and refined tastes.”

I kissed her cheek. Away from Snow Flower I sometimes let my mind ramble into dark places, but now I loved her as I always had. Oh, how I had missed my
laotong.

Our visit to the Temple of Gupo would not have been complete without lunch at the taro stand. Old Man Zuo grinned toothlessly when he saw us with our baby bellies. He made a special meal for us, taking care that he followed all the dietary requirements for our condition. We savored every bite. Then he brought our favorite dish, the deep-fried taro coated in caramelized sugar. Snow Flower and I were like two girls in our giddiness, rather than two married ladies about to give birth.

That night in the inn after we had slipped into our nightclothes, Snow Flower and I lay in bed facing each other. This would be our last night of togetherness before we became mothers. We had learned so many lessons about what we should or shouldn’t do and how these things would affect our unborn children. If my son could respond to hearing profane language or the touch of white jade against my skin, then certainly he had to feel my love for Snow Flower in his little body too.