The Ghost Bride (2 page)
I
tried my best to put the Lim’s disturbing overture out of my mind. After all, it wasn’t really what one would hope for in a first proposal. I knew I ought to be married some day—a day that was drawing ever closer—but life was not yet too restrictive. Compared to how things are done in China, we were fairly casual in Malaya. Locally born Chinese women didn’t bind their feet. Indeed, the other races looked upon foot binding as strange and ugly, crippling a woman and making her useless for work in the home. When the Portuguese first landed in Malacca more than three hundred years ago, there were already Chinese here, though the earliest Chinese who came to seek their fortunes brought no women. Some took Malay wives and the resulting mix of cultures was known as Peranakan. Later, settlers sent for women from home who were often older, divorced, or widowed, for who else would undertake such a long and perilous voyage? So we were less rigid here, and even an unmarried girl of good family might walk in the streets, accompanied, of course, by a chaperone. In any case, despite my father’s eternal interest in all things cultural from China, the reality was that the British were the ruling class here. They set the laws and precedents, established government offices, and opened English schools for natives. Our bright young men aspired to be government clerks under them.
I wondered what had happened to the unfortunate Lim Tian Ching and if he had hoped to rise to such a clerkship, or whether such things were beneath him as the son of a rich man. His father was well known as the owner of tin mining concessions, as well as coffee and rubber plantations. I also wondered why the family had approached my father, for it wasn’t as though I had any kind of personal history with their son.
Over the next few days I tried to badger my father into revealing more of their conversation but he refused to answer, retreating to his study and, I am sure, smoking more opium than he ought. He had a vaguely sheepish air as though he was sorry he had ever mentioned it. Amah also got on his nerves. Not daring to berate him openly, she wandered around with a feather duster, addressing various inanimate objects with a stream of muttered complaints. Unable to escape her onslaught, my father eventually placed the newspaper over his face and pretended to be asleep.
In this way, I thought the matter settled. However, a few days later a message came from the Lim family. It was an invitation from Madam Lim herself to play mahjong.
“Oh, I don’t play,” I said, before I could stop myself.
The servant who had been sent merely smiled and said it didn’t matter; I should still come and watch. Indeed, I was very curious to see the interior of the Lim mansion, and despite pulling a sour face, Amah could not help fussing over my clothes and hair. Meddling was always her second nature and since I was much raised by her, I feared that it was also one of my own qualities.
“Well, if you must go, at least they will see that you are nothing to be ashamed of!” she said as she laid out my second-best dress. I had two good dresses: one of thin lilac silk with morning glories embroidered on the collar and sleeves, and another of pale green with butterflies. Both belonged to my mother, as I hadn’t had new silk clothing for a while. Most of the time I wore loose cotton
cheong sam
, which is a long gown, or
sam foo
, the blouse and trousers used by working girls. As it was, when these dresses wore out, we would probably unpick the embroidered collar and cuffs to reuse on another garment.
“What shall we do with your hair?” asked Amah, forgetting that she had disapproved of this visit only moments ago. My hair was usually kept in two neat plaits, though for special occasions it was skewered up with long hairpins. These gave me a headache, particularly when wielded by Amah, who was determined that not one strand should stray. Stepping back, she surveyed her handiwork and stuck in a couple of gold pins with jade butterflies. The hairpins were also my mother’s. After that, she clasped no less than five necklaces around my neck: two of gold; one of garnets; another of small freshwater pearls; and the last with a heavy jade disk. I felt quite burdened by this largesse, but it was nothing compared to what wealthier people wore. Women had little security other than jewelry, so even the poorest among us sported gold chains, earrings, and rings as their insurance. As for the rich—well, I would soon see how Madam Lim was attired.
The Lim mansion was farther out of town, away from the close quarters of Jonker and Heeren Streets, where wealthy Chinese merchants had taken over old Dutch shop houses. I heard that the Lims too had such property, but they had moved their main residence to where the rich were building new estates in Klebang. It wasn’t too far from our house, though I had heard it was nothing like the European quarter’s villas and bungalows. Those were very grand, indeed, with many servants, stables, and great expanses of green lawn. The Lim mansion was in the Chinese style and said to be quite imposing in its own right. Amah had called for a rickshaw to take us there, although I thought it wasteful when we could have walked. She pointed out, however, that it was still a fair distance and it would do no good to appear covered in sweat and dust.
The afternoon sun had begun to abate when we set off. Waves of heat rose from the road along with clouds of fine white dust. Our rickshaw puller moved at a steady trot, rivulets of sweat streaking his back. I felt sorry for those coolies who hired themselves out in this manner. It was a hard way to make a living, although better than working in the tin mines, where I had heard the mortality rate was almost one in two. The rickshaw pullers were very thin, with concave rib cages, leathery skin, and bare feet so calloused that they resembled hooves. Still, the scrutiny of these strange men made me uneasy. Of course, I was not supposed to go out unaccompanied and when I did, must shade my face with an oiled-paper parasol. Before I could muse much further, however, we had drawn up to the Lim mansion. While Amah gave the rickshaw puller stern instructions to wait for us outside, I gazed at the heavy ironwood doors, which swung open noiselessly to reveal an equally silent servant.
We passed through a courtyard lined with large porcelain pots planted with bougainvillea. The pots alone were worth a small fortune and had been shipped from China, nestled in chests of tea leaves to protect against breakage. The blue-and-white glaze had the limpid quality that I had seen on the few small pieces that my father still possessed. If such costly ceramics were left out in the sun and rain, then I was certainly impressed. Perhaps that was the point. We waited in a grand foyer while the servant went ahead to announce us. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard and the sweeping teak staircase had carved balustrades. And all around there were clocks.
Such clocks! The walls were covered with dozens of clocks in every style imaginable. Large ones stood on the floor and smaller examples nestled on side tables. There were cuckoo clocks, porcelain clocks, delicate ormolu clocks, and a tiny clock no larger than a quail’s egg. Their glass faces shone and the brass ornaments winked. All about us rose the hum of their works. Time, it seemed, could scarcely go unmarked in this house.
While I was admiring this sight, the servant reappeared and we were ushered through a further sequence of rooms. The house, like many Chinese mansions, was built in a series of courtyards and connecting corridors. We passed through stone gardens arranged like miniature landscapes and parlors stiff with antique furniture, until I heard the raised chatter of women’s voices and the sharp clack of mahjong tiles. Five tables had been set up and I had an impression of well-dressed ladies who put my own attire to shame. But my eyes were fixed on the head table, where the servant muttered something to a woman who could only have been Madam Lim.
At first glance I was disappointed. I had penetrated so far into this domain that I was expecting, perhaps naively, nothing less than the Queen of Heaven. Instead, she was a middle-aged woman with a figure that had thickened at the waist. She was dressed beautifully but severely in an inky-hued
baju panjang
to signify mourning. Her son had died nine months ago but she would mourn him at least a year. She was almost overshadowed by the woman who sat next to her. She too wore blue and white mourning colors, but her stylish
kebaya
had a waspish cut, and her jeweled hairpins gave her an insect-like glitter. I would have thought that she was the lady of the house except for the fact that she, like the other women at the table, couldn’t help but glance at Madam Lim as though to take their cue from her. I learned later that she was the Third Wife.
“I’m glad you could come,” said Madam Lim. She had a soft voice, strangely youthful and much like the purring of a dove. I had to strain to hear her over the surrounding chatter.
“Thank you, Auntie,” I replied, for that was how we addressed older women as a mark of respect. I wasn’t sure whether to bob my head or bow. How I wished I had paid more attention to such niceties!
“I knew your mother before she was married, when we were children,” she said. “She never mentioned it?” Seeing my surprise, Madam Lim showed her teeth briefly in a smile. “Your mother and I are distantly related.” This I had never heard of either. “I should have asked after you earlier,” said Madam Lim, “It was very remiss of me.” Around her the mahjong game started up again with a brisk clatter. She gestured to a servant, who pulled up a marble-topped stool beside her. “Come, Li Lan. I hear that you don’t play, but perhaps you’d like to watch.”
So I sat next to her, looking at her tiles while she made bids, and nibbling sweetmeats that issued in a never-ending stream from the kitchens. They had all my favorite kinds of
kuih
—the soft steamed
nyonya
cakes made of glutinous rice flour stuffed with palm sugar or shredded coconut. There were delicate rolled biscuits called love letters and pineapple tarts pressed out of rich pastry. Bowls of toasted watermelon seeds were passed around, along with fanned slices of mango and papaya. It had been a long time since we had had such an assortment of treats at home, and I couldn’t help indulging myself like a child. From the corner of my eye I saw Amah shake her head, but here she was powerless to stop me. At length Amah disappeared to the kitchen to help out, and without her disapproving eye, I continued eating.
From time to time, Madam Lim murmured something to me. Her voice was so soft, however, that I scarcely understood her. I smiled and nodded, all the while gazing around with undisguised curiosity. I rarely had the chance to go out in society. Had my mother lived, I might have sat beside her just like this, peering over her shoulder at the ivory tiles and soaking up gossip. These women peppered their conversation with sly references to important people and places. With nonchalance, they mentioned what seemed to me astounding gambling debts.
Madam Lim must have thought me simple or at the very least unsophisticated. I caught her sharp pigeon eyes studying me from time to time. Strangely enough, this seemed to relieve her. Only much later did I understand why she was so pleased with my gauche performance. Around us, the ladies chattered and made bets, jade bangles ringing as the tiles clattered. The Third Wife had moved to another table, which was a pity since I would have liked to study her a little more. She was certainly handsome, though she had a reputation for being difficult, as Amah had earlier found out through servants’ chatter. I saw no sign of a Second Wife, although I was told that Lim himself, as a rich man’s prerogative, kept other minor concubines whom he had not bothered to marry. There were four daughters from the different wives but no surviving sons. Two had died in infancy and the last, Lim Tian Ching, had been buried less than a year ago. I had wanted to ask Amah how he died but she was unwilling to discuss it, claiming there was no use having any interest in him since I would never be married to him. As it was, the only heir was Lim’s nephew.
“Actually he is the rightful heir,” Amah had said on our way there.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s Lim’s older brother’s son. Lim himself is the second son. He took over the estate when his older brother died, but promised to bring up his nephew as his heir. As time went on, however, people said that maybe he didn’t want to overlook his own children. But what’s there to talk about anyway? Lim has no more sons of his own now.”
As I considered this web of relationships, I couldn’t help feeling a frisson of excitement. It was a world of wealth and intrigue, much like the crudely printed romances that my father was so dismissive of. Of course Amah disapproved. I knew, however, that she too was secretly enthralled. It was so different from our own penurious household. How depressing it was to think of how we scraped along year by year, always trying to stretch things and never buying anything pretty or new! The worst was that my father never did anything. He no longer went out to make contracts or run his business. He had given all that up and was walled up in his study, endlessly copying his favorite poems and writing obscure treatises. Lately, I felt that we were all penned up with him too.
“You look sad.” Madam Lim’s voice broke in on me. Nothing seemed to escape her gaze. Her eyes were light for a Chinese, and the pupils small and round, like the eyes of a bird.
I colored. “This house is so lively compared with my own home.”
“You like it here?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Tell me,” she said, “do you have a sweetheart?”
“No.” I stared fixedly at my hands.
“Well,” she said, “a young girl shouldn’t be too worldly.” She gave me one of her abbreviated smiles. “My dear, I hope you’re not offended that I ask you so many questions. You remind me so much of your mother, and also myself when I was younger.”
I refrained from asking her about her own daughters. There were a few young women at the other tables, but everyone had been introduced to me in such a cursory manner that I had a hard time keeping track of who was a cousin, friend, or daughter.
The mahjong game continued but as I wasn’t a player, I began to feel restless after a while. When I excused myself to use the washroom, Madam Lim beckoned a servant to escort me. She was in the middle of an exciting hand and I hoped she would stay that way for a while. The servant led me along various passages to a heavy
chengal
wood door. When I was done, I opened it a crack. My guide was still waiting patiently outside. But there was a call down the hallway and, casting a quick glance at the door, she left to answer it.
