The Witch's Market (20 page)

24

There Is Always One Near You

I
didn't know which was more frightening, Penelope appearing or her disappearing. Either way was enough for me. Once she vanished I was able to move my limbs again and I bolted to my room. Back on my own bed, I felt some relief, though I was still in a cold sweat from the “unclean” visitation. I muttered a prayer for protection, then tried to remember everything Penelope had said to me, lest it vanish from my mind like a dream.

Paradoxically, I felt deeply touched by Penelope's attachment to Alfredo, despite his betrayal. Even in hell, she still wanted me to make a paper boat, write her name on it, and set it out on the underworld sea so she could cross from the
yin
world to visit her husband. For all her arrogance, the prima donna had at least one noble quality—she truly loved her husband.

What to make of what a ghost tells you in a dream? If it was a dream. But if not, what? Anyway, it did explain some things—like Cecily being Nathalia, or vice versa.

I massaged my temples, hoping, but failing, to clear my head. So the witch had changed her name and lived underground to avoid her victims' vengeance. I wondered if she ever thought to amend her wrongdoings, rather than spend most of her time in hiding. Surely she would be worried that Penelope's ghost was unappeased.

Hoping to sleep, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. I must have been asleep because Laolao came to me, not like a ghost but as a memory.

“See, Eileen, I always told you that your brain is different from the others, but you didn't believe me. You should know that at the back of our brain there are five doors opening onto different paths. But unlike ordinary people, you're gifted with one more door, one that opens to the other side.”

“What other side?” I asked her.

“The side that everyone fears to enter, but are also desperate to peek into, especially when their loved ones have gone there first.”

“Is it dangerous to go there?”

“Not if you're respectful and do it with good intentions. If you show respect, you'll receive it in return.”

I nodded as if I understood.

After that I couldn't close my eye—I mean my
yin
eye. Images floated before me: Penelope and her fading love letters in her cold, forbidden, haunted room. Isabelle underwater. Sabrina mourning at her daughter's grave . . .

Then I remembered an article I'd read a long time ago in a metaphysical magazine. Entitled “There Is Always One Near You,” it explained that because people are dying every minute, ghosts are all around us. But normally, only those few people who possess the
yin
eye can see them.

After reading the article, I asked Laolao, “Do you have the
yin
eye?”

“I do, but not like my mother—your great-grandmother—had.”

Laolao went on to tell me how her mother saw impure beings everywhere. At the cinema, even with only a few people in the audience, Great-grandma would tell her daughter that it was a full house—to the latter's nervous giggling to hide her fright.

Once when they were having dinner, Great-grandma told her that “someone” was tasting the food on her plate. When Laolao asked what ghosts look like, her mother's answer was, “Just like us, but their faces are very pale. The bitter ones—those who died of murder, suicide, or violent accidents—have bloody tears dripping from their eyes!”

Great-grandma also told Laolao that every room in every house is crowded with them, but only those of us who are blessed—or more likely, cursed—with the
yin
eye can see them.

Laolao said, “So as not to disturb them, whenever we entered an old building or temple, your great-grandma would bow, and utter politely, ‘Please excuse our intrusion.' ”

Once when they visited a family in a very old Chinatown building, Great-grandma told Laolao that on the couch she saw a ghostly woman holding a baby and staring at them with sad eyes. When Laolao asked if she could sit without pressing on the mother and child, Great-grandma said, “Right here. The mother sees you and has already moved to the side.”

Growing up hearing these ghost stories, though Laolao clearly considered them to be real, I was intrigued by them but regarded them skeptically.

But when I argued with Laolao, she always said, “If you don't believe in ghosts, how do you answer the question, ‘Then where do all the dead people go?'”

Now I seemed to be finding out where they went—the Past Life Lake, Uncle Wang's temple, Penelope's boudoir—and probably everywhere else.

Things were happening too fast for me to keep up. I felt I needed some sage advice. Giving up on trying to sleep, I took out from my backpack an old tortoise shell, three ancient coins, and the
Book of Changes,
also known as the
I Ching,
and arranged them on the desk.

These were Laolao's tools for divination, reserved for the most important situations. She'd given them to me before she died, since she would no longer be around to advise me and wanted me to carry on the family tradition. Laolao liked to quote from the
Book of Changes
that in this world, from moment to moment nothing remains the same. She was always quoting the famously incomprehensible Chinese classic.

Once I asked her, “Then why bother with fortune-telling?”

“To predict the unpredictable, what else?”

What kind of logic is that? But I was not going to argue, for Laolao was the authority in the house, and it was her fortune-telling that put food on our table.

Many times Laolao had made me sit with her and taught me how to do it. Although I went along, it was hard for me to feel much in this 3,000-year-old book of inscrutable advice. However, I did know how to use it, at least in theory.

Laolao had always told me, “No challenges, no need for divination,” which means that you only do divination when faced with an unusual dilemma. For if you have no challenges—that is, a good marriage, happy, healthy children, lots of money, a fulfilling job—why would you go to a diviner to have your future told? To hear that your luck is about to change? But I had none of these things and since I'd arrived here, there was something peculiar to deal with nearly every day!

Although I didn't have Penelope's birthday, I knew the day she'd died, so this should be good enough, at least for a brief consultation. For now, what I needed was some hints to the mystery of this whole thing, like: How had Penelope and Isabelle died, murdered or accidents? What had actually happened between Cecily and Sabrina?

My hands were a little shaky as I manipulated the coins. Although Laolao had demonstrated and taught me how to do this many times, now I would be on my own without her guidance. But of course since Laolao was much better and sophisticated than I, if she did this the result might be quite different. But anyway I had no choice but to use whatever I got.

The three coins are cast to obtain the six lines that make up the famous hexagrams. For thousands of years in China, the various arrangements of the six
yin
or
yang
lines were believed to represent all possible situations in life.

I shook the coins in my hand as I muttered my inquiry. The coins dropped onto the table with dull thuds, like three heavy bugs. Consulting the chart at the back of the book, I learned that I had obtained hexagram #33,
Dun or Retreat
. Next I flipped the pages of the
Book of Changes
and found the beginning line of
Pull Back
:

It was obvious that this was not a favorable reading. With my heartbeat accelerating, I continued to reflect on these lines. It seemed to be saying that going back was dangerous, but so was going forward. A trap with no apparent way to get out. This prognostication did seem to apply to poor Isabelle and Penelope. In the end, nothing had worked out for these women. Isabelle should not have gone diving by herself, and Penelope should have stayed off the motorcycle until she calmed down. But they did not have the advantage of the
Book of Changes
to warn them.

Laolao had taught me that the first hexagram you get shows the present situation when it is already receding into the past. To find what to do next, you use another hexagram. This time I obtained #46,
Sheng, on Pushing Upward
:

This seemed to me a lot better than the first one. I assumed that pushing upward meant prevailing in difficult tasks—and my research had turned out to be far more arduous than I'd anticipated. It was telling me not to be afraid—good news, though it did not fully dispel my anxiety. And all my adventures had been on the southern part of this island, so continuing here would be fortunate.

I was half persuaded by the famous book, but it was clear I would be “pushing upward.” Nothing ahead would be easy, not like reading about ghosts and witches in the brightly lit university library.

More than my book was at stake now. I could not give up my compulsion to resolve all the mysteries I had stumbled upon: the circle of witches, headed by the sinister Cecily; the tragedy of the talented but cold Penelope; the death—or murder—of Sabrina's daughter, Isabelle. And most puzzling of all was the opening of my
yin
eye and its uninvited visions....

Also puzzling was the reading stating that my stay in the southern part of this island would be fortunate. Because as for now, the only fortune it brought me was meetings with ghosts!

25

An Unexpected Proposal

A
fter my disturbing discovery of Penelope's boudoir, with its air of desperation and decay—and her even more disturbing emergence from the other world—I decided I needed to be in normal, even dull, surroundings for a while. I wanted to eat, go for walks, read, sleep, and gather my thoughts. Then I hoped I would be calm enough to decide on my next move—unless it would be decided for me by additional visits from the other world.

I said good-bye to Maria, thanked her profusely, and pressed a red lucky money envelope into her hand. Then I asked her to give my regards to Alfredo upon his return.

When I entered the lobby of my small hotel back in Santa Cruz, the young receptionist waved at me.

“Señorita,” he said, and smiled mischievously, “there's a man waiting for you.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

He gave a quick glance around the lobby before answering. “He's not here. Went to eat, I guess. He arrived early this morning and was very disappointed that you weren't here. But I told him you were on your way back.”

“Did he say anything?”

He shook his head. “No.”

It was getting more frustrating and annoying.

“Don't worry, señorita, I'll call your room when he is back.”

A half hour later, as I was unpacking, the phone rang.

“Señorita Chen, the man came back; he says he knows you. He's waiting in the small garden.”

Should I go down to meet this mystery man? But I had already taken a quick glance in the mirror, then dashed to the garden, full of anticipation. The face that greeted me was a familiar one—Ivan.

Even though it warmed my heart to realize his devotion, I was not entirely pleased.

“Ivan, what are you doing here? Why didn't you call?”

“Eileen”—Ivan's face fell like a sack filled with stones—“I thought you'd be happy to see me. . . .”

“Of course I am, but I'm also shocked. I'm not prepared for this.”

“I was on a business trip to Paris and wanted to stop by for a surprise visit.”

Feeling guilty, I smiled sweetly. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

“Are you happy to see me now?”

“Of course I am,” I mumbled, then blurted out, “how long will you stay—and where?”

Ivan let go of me, looking very upset. “I'm going to stay with you, of course!”

“But that . . . will really complicate matters,” I said calmly, not wanting to spill oil on fire.

“What matters will it complicate, may I ask?” His tone held an angry edge. I feared he was about to explode.

“We're supposed to be in a trial separation, remember?”

He didn't respond but held my elbow and pressed me forcefully toward the elevator. I could see we were beginning to attract attention, but, fortunately, there was a waiting elevator so we were quickly out of sight.

Once inside my room, he paced around, obviously trying to calm down.

Finally, he spoke, this time gently. “Eileen, after some serious thinking, I have decided that I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I will do everything I can to make you happy.”

He seemed to take my silence as consent, because he sat down beside me on the bed, smiling dreamily, and asked in a formal tone, “Eileen, will you marry me?”

“But, Ivan—”

I was about to say that I wasn't going to make such a big decision right here and now, but he had already pressed his lips against mine.

Ivan was a skilled kisser. I was sure he could melt many women's hearts, as well as any resistance between their thighs, not only with his swollen and powerful you-know-what, but also his equally swollen and potent wallet. I often wondered why, out of all the other women, he wanted me. Perhaps he sensed I was different from all of the airheaded, gold-digging bimbos that I suspected frequently shared his bed. Those women who'd practically have an orgasm by seeing him in his Ferrari or setting down his black Amex card at a fashionable eatery.

It took some effort to disentangle from him. Just as I was about to say something, he held up a small red velvet box. With the right man I suppose I might have been ecstatic to see this, but now all I could think about was how to extricate myself.

After he opened it, I saw a huge ring, its diamond sparkling ostentatiously.

“You like it?”

“Ivan, let's cool down first, please.”

He didn't look very happy. In fact, he looked like a punctured balloon.

Putting the box down, he said, “We've been cooling down for almost four months now. Eileen, I know you like me, so why do you keep putting me off?”

Now his swagger was replaced by a scolded puppy expression. I had never before seen the wealthy, relentless Ivan with such a vulnerable expression. I wondered, was it an act, just to manipulate me into marrying him out of pity, or had I really broken the heart that I'd not even known existed?

“Ivan, we really belong to two different worlds. I like money, but not as much as you. You're a businessman and I'm just a professor, not even a tenured one. I spend my time in dull libraries, not nightclubs or yachts. It wouldn't take long for you to get bored with me. I really don't want to end up spoiling my life with a bitter divorce.”

“Eileen! You talk about divorce and we're not even married! I love you exactly because you are not money crazy. And even if God forbid that someday I'll lose what I've achieved, you will still love me and be there for me, right?”

I put a finger across his lips. “Don't say unlucky things. You're not going to lose anything, okay?”

“Not including you? Anyway, Eileen, marriage is not as bad as you think. Sometimes you're too pessimistic about life.”

“At my age I have to be careful.”

“You'll be safe with me. Promise.” He sighed, looking sad, manly, vulnerable—and seductive.

I needed to harden my heart. I couldn't let myself fall for the affection-craving little-boy persona that was tugging at my maternal instinct. Nor for the vision of an easy life with all his money.

 

That night, no matter how much Ivan wanted it, I insisted there would be no sex. It was the first time that we slept together and didn't make love. It felt strange. I was too tired and confused, and making love was the last thing on my mind.

I needed to have a clear picture of recent events in order to decide what to do with my life. That was why I didn't want to be distracted by Ivan and his proposal. I felt as if I were treading on a tightrope. This was not the time to make a decision that would affect the rest of my life.

The next morning when I woke up, Ivan was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me with sad, bitter eyes. I immediately sat up, then pulled the bedsheet to cover my half-exposed breasts and bare shoulders. Ivan had seen me naked a hundred times. We'd tried all kinds of positions—“auspicious” and “inauspicious”—or even “criminally obscene.” We'd experimented with what we'd seen in esoteric Chinese sex manuals: Flirty Eyes, Willow in the Wind, Banquet in the Backyard, Evening Sailing, The Drunken Return, The Turning Dragon, The Monkey's Attack.

I wondered why I suddenly felt so awkward with him. Then I realized, sadly, that for whatever reason, what I'd felt for him before was now gone.

Ivan stood up. He was stark naked and as hard as Grandpa's stone statue. I felt bad that he wanted me but I did not want him. It was nobody's fault but my own, because I'd let him sleep next to me.

Despite my loss of romantic feeling for Ivan, I still had some affection for him. He was an expert manipulator, so I had to harden myself to refuse giving him what he wanted. But I knew him well enough to be aware that he could not tolerate anyone turning him down.

Ivan started to do his morning exercises, having always liked to show off his toned body. Finally he dressed, though very slowly, perhaps to better show me what I would be missing. In a way I regretted my loss of feelings for him. I could remember not long ago when, like a cat eyeing a bird, I would ogle every inch of his body and his every sensuous move.

Once he was fully dressed, he said sarcastically, “I'm going back to San Francisco. You take care of yourself.”

I knew his feelings were hurt, not only because I wouldn't make love with him, but because in Ivan's dictionary, failure was a word to be spat and trod upon.

“Ivan.” I tried to be friendly. “Do you want to have breakfast together before you go to the airport?”

“No, I don't have any appetite. Besides, I don't think you enjoy my company anymore.”

“Ivan, don't be childish.”

“Childish? I think you're the one who's childish! On a whim, you just dumped everything in San Francisco and came here to gather material for your book, about witches—of all things.

“Do you really think you can find real witches? Have you written anything so far? Can you show me some finished pages? I'm leaving you alone now so you can be pursued by those famous hot European lovers. Good luck with these penniless Casanovas!”

“Let's not quarrel just as you're leaving. I want you to know that I'll always care about you and treasure our time together.”

“All right,” he said curtly, then gave me a peck on my forehead. “When you realize you've made a big mistake, come home.”

Hearing his words I felt a sudden surge of homesickness, but I wasn't ready to go back yet.

As I was about to reach out for him, he said, without looking at me, “I thought you really loved me . . . my mistake.” Then he shut the door with a bang.

I wasn't happy to have it end this way, but I wasn't going to chase after him. The day might come when I would regret this decision, but no point to worry about it now. I flopped back onto the bed, feeling a headache coming. Just then, my eyes landed on the red velvet box on the nightstand.

I opened the box and took the ring out. It was a huge, sparkling solitary diamond set on a gold band. The diamond had at least five carats. I wondered if he'd forgotten it in the heat of the moment, or deliberately left it to remind me of what I'd given up. I could not imagine that he would buy something that expensive unless he really cared for me. Of course I'd have to return it to him. But he might refuse to take it back—it would, after all, be a reminder of his humiliation. If so, maybe I would give it to charity. Not only because it was the right thing to do, but because it would always remind me of what might have been—if I'd been different, or he had.

I sighed at having to turn down this once-in-a-lifetime catch.