Journey Across the Four Seas (5 page)

*

Sam-Koo’s prediction came true. My life became bitterer than bitter squash. No matter how good Mother’s cooking was, it left a bad taste on my tongue. My face was always long and sad. Tears came to my eyes at the least provocation, and sometimes at no provocation at all. I kept them to myself, though, and especially from Mother. The only person I could weep in front of was Sam-Koo. Not only did she not beat me, she would talk to me, sometimes nicely and other times threatening to get mad if I didn’t stop sniffling. In any case, she always made me feel better. She loved to use words with a rich-sounding ring, such as karma, merit, and cause and effect. I didn’t quite understand what they meant, but I always hung on to them, as if they were keys to a door that would lead me out of my misery.

One night, after watching a tragic opera, I felt so sad that I started crying on our walk home.

"What’s the matter with you this time, you tear bag?" Sam-Koo chided.

"The lovers died," I blubbered.

"Yes, but they also flew out of their graves as butterflies. They can never be separated again. Weren’t the butterflies beautiful?"

"They’re fake! They’re made of paper!" I bawled.

"Listen to me," Sam-Koo raised her voice to override mine. Being a schoolteacher, shouting came naturally to her. "I know your life is bitter, but you have to remember there’s a yin and yang to everything. In death, the lovers found life. In sadness, a person can find happiness. In bitterness, there is sweetness."

The mystery of the opposites held me in its spell. My crying abated.

Sam-Koo went on: "Even the poor enjoy moments as sweet as any that the rich can have. Look at us. We buy opera tickets at half-price. We go in at halftime, but who needs to see the first act? We already know what happened. Did you see the women in the glittery cheongsams sitting in the front row?"

I nodded, remembering how silly they were, screaming and reaching out to touch the hem of their idol.

"Their tickets cost a lot more than ours. But did they enjoy the opera more than we?"

I thought about it, and shook my head.

"Now you see? You can be poor but you can also be as happy as the rich."

Here was another yin-yang for me to think about. My brain was working so hard that it had forgotten to be sad. I’d all but stopped crying. A tune from the Butterfly Lovers wafted out of Sam-Koo’s lips. My throat felt parched from sobbing, and yet I couldn’t help humming along. It was past
midnight
, and there were only the two of us on the street. My humming became bolder and bolder. I opened my mouth, and the lyrics flew out like little yellow butterflies.

From then on, I realized it was all right to smile again. Sam-Koo had given me permission to be happy even when I felt miserable for Mother. Sam-Koo also said that good times and bad times are like the sun and moon. You usually see one and not the other, and yet you know that both are always there. Therefore, she concluded, when your fortunes are riding high, you shouldn’t feel arrogant, and when they’re low, you shouldn’t feel depressed. I didn’t understand everything she said, but I liked being talked to as though I were a grown-up.

*

I turned nine that summer, a summer unlike any other.
Hong Kong
was all astir when a local girl beat all the other Chinese in a swimming competition. The champ, dubbed the Baby Mermaid, was only thirteen. We were bursting with pride that our dribble of land could produce a star that outshone the entire Chinese population. Swimming became a rave, and children and grandparents alike flocked to the beaches.

Once school was out, Brother Yung took me swimming every day. Back then, before skyscrapers and concrete pavement covered every inch of land,
Hong Kong
was a paradise of golden sand. For a few cents, we rode the tram to a nearby beach at North Point. There was always a gang of us, including my cousin Helen, who was visiting from
Canton
, and the landlady’s children and their friends. Those who could swim ventured out to the floating dock, while those who couldn’t splashed around in shallow water. Helen and I, both nonswimmers, took lessons from Brother Yung. He taught us to swim the breaststroke, which we call "frog style" in Chinese, because it imitates a frog kicking and squeezing its legs together. When the day’s lesson was over, Helen and I would help each other practice. I would stretch my arms under her belly and buoy her up so that she could paddle. After a while, she would do the same for me.

"Today is final exam time," Brother Yung said to me one afternoon. "If you can swim out to the floating dock, you pass. Don’t be afraid; I’ll be with you all the way. Here, hold on to me." I gripped his hand, and together we swam out. Halfway to the dock, he pulled his hand away. I splashed frantically. I called to him, but every time I opened my mouth, salt water gushed in. Brother Yung flipped on his back and scissored the water with his legs, a grin on his face as he shot away. Gasping, I looked toward shore and then at the dock. They looked equally far away. I held up my head for a deep breath and lunged after my brother.

As I climbed up the floating dock, a dozen heads turned to stare at me. They were all young men, and some of them wiped their eyes to make sure they were seeing right. How could a mere slip of a girl swim this far? It’s impossible! But there I was, standing proudly on the platform far out on the open sea. The taste on my tongue was sweeter than honey.

TAPE TWO

DREAMING IN THE RED CHAMBER

1

How I pined for a father when I was child. If he were alive, Mother wouldn’t be so miserable and we would have a proper place for a home. Looking at his portrait day and night, I couldn’t help dreaming about the things he could do for me. It’s only in retrospect that I realize that he was with me all along in the guise of my brothers. The three of them combined and in their separate ways were my guardian, teacher, and friend.

Let me tell you about each of my brothers, starting with the youngest. Ngai was an active boy with what Mother called a "pointed bottom." He couldn’t sit still for a minute, so studying was difficult for him. Ngai was on the verge of flunking throughout primary school, but something happened soon after he got to the secondary level. He announced that his ambition was to be the commander in chief of the army, navy, and air force. His teachers lauded his lofty goal and told him that studying hard was the only way to achieve it. Overnight, his pointed bottom rounded. He turned from being the tail of the class to the head. Many years afterward, when I was struggling with my son’s education, I would remember Ngai’s transformation and draw hope from it. Some children, I suspect boys more than girls, are destined for a slow start, but once they take off, they can catch up or even exceed their peers.

Being only two years apart, Ngai and I were best friends. As we had no toys to play with, we had to create our own games. One of our favorites was imitating our rulers, the British. I invented it after witnessing a scene on the street. While running an errand for Mother, I saw a British man dressed in a white suit. His pants hugged his legs, reminding me of Mother’s theory that when a
gweilo
fell, he couldn’t get up because his pants were too tight. The Englishman’s leather shoes made a loud clackety-clack on the pavement. The sight and sound mesmerized me. Everything about him was alien—we Chinese wore baggy pants to give us freedom of movement, and our cloth shoes would never create such a racket. Then I saw a beggar come up to him. The Englishman waved his cane and shouted something, his face turning as red as a monkey’s bottom. The scene made such an impression on me that I reenacted it to Ngai the moment I got home. Brandishing Mother’s duster as the Englishman his cane, I yelled, "Gid-a-wai, chop chop!" I had no idea that what I was saying meant "Get away, hurry up!" To complete my act, I marched off, clucking my tongue to mimic the noisy leather shoes. Ngai rolled with laughter on the floor. From then on, we took turns in playing the Englishman and the beggar.

My second brother, Kin, was already a teenager when I started school. Although I would never address him without his title "Elder Brother," his behavior didn’t always deserve respect. He was a joker and teaser. Being a serious person myself, I never knew when not to take him seriously. Once, after helping me with an arithmetic problem, he demanded payment in food. Whatever I ate, I had to give him an equal share. I set out to fulfill my obligation in earnest, splitting everything I got and collecting them in my handkerchief. After several days, I presented him with a feast of halved cakes and fruits. He howled in laughter. I felt rather hurt, for I’d sacrificed a lot to satisfy his demand. To make matters worse, he grimaced with every bite, complaining this was too sour and that was too sweet.

Home was always noisier when Brother Kin was around. So it was just as well that he was often out with his many friends. They swarmed around him like flies around a plate of food. Not that he had much to offer them, but whenever he had a coin in his pocket, he would fight for the privilege to treat his friends. Mother said his extravagance would be his downfall. Brother Kin answered by sticking out his tongue and cracking his gorgeous smile.

The summer Brother Kin turned sixteen, he joined the lifeguard team at the YMCA. He went there every day, hoping to find someone to save. When school started, he continued to frequent the Y—so much so that he started drowning in poor grades. If Mother were educated, she would have caught the problem in time and put a stop to it. But she’d never spent a day in school and was ignorant of grades and report cards. She only knew that as long as her sons were studying for free, they could go on with their education.

When the school withdrew Brother Kin’s scholarship, it was too late for remedy. Unable to afford the tuition, Mother took him out of school and sent him on a boat to
Thailand
. This was all right with Kin, for the pull of the ancestral current on him had always been strong.

If Father were alive, he would have taken his second son on his trading trips a long time ago. His associates would have remarked at the strong father-son resemblance, and Father would have been so proud. But Father was dead. The only person willing to teach Brother Kin the family tradition was Uncle Ben, Father’s youngest brother. He’d settled in
Thailand
and made a name for himself in the rice trade and shipping industry. For the next few years, my brother would serve as an apprentice in Uncle’s business in
Thailand
. I must say, from a selfish point of view, that the change in the course of Brother Kin’s life was for the best. By the time he became a seasoned entrepreneur, my education expenses had risen to a point where only a wealthy father could foot the bill. Brother Kin rose to fill that role.

My eldest brother, Yung, was the most brilliant of us all. Whipped by poverty and Mother’s duster, he excelled in his studies. He always ranked first—not just in his school, but in the whole colony. Prizes and awards were constantly heaped on him. Everyone said he was destined for the prestigious
Hong Kong
University
. He could be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer; whatever he became, he was bound to be a leading star in our tight-knit community. Everyone said his future was limitless. Thus when he threw everything away to take on a clerical job, everyone was speechless. Brother Yung did for me what only a father would do. He sacrificed his future so that I could have one.

I was present at this exchange between my mother and brother, for in our tiny living space there was no room for secrets.

"Yung, you can’t go to university," Mother said. "There’s no other road—You
have
to get a job, or we’ll all starve. We can’t depend on our friends and relatives for every meal."

"What about your jewelry? Don’t you have some in your trunk?"

Mother seemed so tired that she could barely shake her head. "I’ve sold all my jewelry. I don’t have one gem left, not even one as small as a pea. I’m not joking. You
cannot
go to university."
   

"But you don’t have to pay a cent. The university has granted me a full scholarship, and a British merchant is giving me $800 a year for room and board."

"The money may be enough to feed you, but what about your little brother and sister? You expect them to eat wind?"

"Mother, you don’t understand! My score was the highest in the whole of
Hong Kong
. I can’t just give it up. Besides, it’s only four years. After I graduate, I can get a good job, and you’ll have nothing to worry about the rest of your life."

"In four years we’ll all be dead. Honestly, Yung, I’ve walked as far as I can to a dead end. There’s nowhere else to go."

There was a heavy silence. I looked from my mother to my brother. Mother’s face was calm, her voice too, which made her statements even more frightening than her frenzied outbursts. Brother Yung’s eyes were downcast. I could see he was unhappy, but I didn’t realize how unhappy until he looked up. His eyes were brimming with tears and his lips trembled when he said, "Whatever you say." Then the tears spilled over and my brother cried and cried until he could cry no more.

2

I have another brother, a half brother born of Father’s wife in
Swatow
. His name was Fei-Chi. He came to live with us for almost a year, and changed my life forever after. He was a frail, sweet-looking boy, sandwiched between Ngai and me in age. I was twelve, Fei-Chi eleven, and Ngai ten.

The person who sent Fei-Chi to us was Brother Kin. They were both apprenticing with Uncle Ben in
Bangkok
. But unlike my brother, Fei-Chi was lazy. He disappeared for hours every afternoon; nobody knew where he went until Uncle found him lying on top of a sack of rice in the warehouse, sleeping like the dead. Uncle tried to get him to mend his ways, but Fei-Chi was incorrigible. He had no ambition at all, except to sleep and eat.

When word got around that Uncle was about to send Fei-Chi back to
Swatow
, Brother Kin took pity on him. My brother thought
Hong Kong
would be a better place for the boy. Fei-Chi could go to a decent school, study English, and make something of himself. As I’d pointed out earlier, this brother of mine was generous to a fault. He was full of good intentions, but the trouble he got you into could be as bad as leading a column of ants up your pants. He bought Fei-Chi passage on a ship to
Hong Kong
. What else could Mother do but pull out the canvas cot and squeeze one more person into our dingy room?

Fei-Chi was as lazy as they said. The moment he came home from school, he would roll into his cot and stay there the rest of the day. Mother was furious at him. None of us had any inkling that he was sick. One day, I caught him spitting blood into a spittoon. I cried out in alarm. He swished the spittoon around, and the blood disappeared. "It’s just blood from my gums," he said.

When summer vacation arrived, he asked to see his mother in
Swatow
. My mother thought it was a reasonable request and paid for his fare. Soon after, we received a letter from Fei-Chi’s mother asking for a loan. Fei-Chi was sick; she needed the money to take him to a doctor. If you recall, Fei-Chi’s mother had shacked up with Fifteenth Uncle, the crook who had robbed Mother of a chunk of her inheritance. The two didn’t stay together long, though, for Uncle was found guilty of the robbery and murder of a wealthy townsman, and put to death soon after. To have this woman ask Mother for a loan now was just too ridiculous to entertain. Mother ignored the letter. A few weeks later word reached us that Fei-Chi had died. We were shocked. How could a person die so quickly? What did he die of? No further information was given us until a relative from the village came to visit. Fei-Chi had died of tuberculosis. It had been common knowledge that he’d been suffering from consumption for a while—known to everyone but us.

I fell sick the same year. Headaches and fevers haunted me. I was always complaining that my "brain" hurt, for that was what it felt like—somebody hammering a long nail through my skull into the soft tissue. The pain would come and go, but whenever it came it would stay for days in a row. I often held my head and cried myself to sleep. At thirteen, I was sprouting into a young woman, but as I grew taller I also grew lighter. My complexion, which had always been fair, turned bloodless. Something was obviously wrong with me.

Mother suggested that I go see the herbal doctor at the market. Since she was always busy with mahjong, I had to walk there by myself. The doctor was sitting at a rickety table by a vegetable stand, feeling the pulse of a female patient. After a thoughtful silence, he sang out something that sounded like a poem, all the while wagging his head in rhythm: her blood was weak, her air was too cold inside and too hot outside, and the fire in her liver was rising. For these conditions, he picked up his brush and wrote in broad strokes the names of a dozen herbs.

My turn came. I sat down on the chair and stuck out my tongue as directed. The doctor, who looked ancient to me with his goatee and long Chinese gown, examined it and uttered a ponderous "mmm." Then he felt my pulse, after which he uttered "mmm" again. In the same singsong tone, he recited the diagnosis. The poem sounded similar to the one he’d recited before—the hot and cold, blood and air. Then I heard the words "blood disease." They struck me as significant and I made a point of remembering them.

"So what did the doctor say?" Mother asked.

"He says I have blood disease," I said, feeling rather self-important.

"Did he give you any herbs?"

"No, he says I should stay home and rest. He says I shouldn’t go to school for at least six months."

Mother fixed a stern look at me. I didn’t dare return her gaze for fear that she would read my mind. Like any child, a long vacation suited me just fine.

"Don’t go, then. Your health is more important. Look at you, long and thin like a bamboo. All the fish-head stews I made have been wasted on you." Mother shook her head. Her jowls quivered like jelly. She’d grown so fat that her neck had completely disappeared.

During the long break, I reread the novel
Dream of the Red Chamber
. The first time I read it was at the age of seven. The message had been way too deep for me, but now at the mature age of thirteen, I could appreciate it much more. I copied down the poems and committed them to memory. I talked to the characters, cried with them, and dreamed with them in their worldly chamber.

The heroine, Tai-Yu, became my best friend. Perhaps it was because we were both orphans, as well as poor and sickly. After her mother had died, Tai-Yu was sent to live in the palatial compound of a wealthy uncle. She and her uncle’s son fell in love, but because of her circumstances, the family objected to the union. The young man was tricked into marrying another cousin, a rich one. While the wedding was going on in the main house, the sound of the festivities reached the orphan girl in her quarters. She gathered all the poems that she’d written and burned them one by one. She died that night after spitting blood.