Three Souls (36 page)
Old Kwan had told me that when Baizhen’s grandfather was still alive, fourteen servants had lived in these quarters. Now only one of the buildings is in use, and its roof sags so much the two middle rooms are open to wind and rain. Old Kwan and Mrs. Kwan live in the two best rooms, closest to the courtyard, using one as a bedroom and the other as a sitting room. Dali occupies a single chamber at the far end. The second building contains a jumble of broken pottery and some old furniture, meant to be repaired someday but more likely to end up chopped for firewood.
Dali’s bed is made of carved elm. Once a finely crafted piece of furniture, it has lost its legs and now rests on a low platform of bricks. A cheap mirror lies face down on a table by the window, along with a wooden comb, a jar of cold cream, and a dish of hairpins.
Dali combs out her hair before braiding it again loosely. She hums “Purple Bamboo Melody”
off-key, rubbing cold cream on her face until it’s covered in an oily sheen. Still humming, she lies down and stretches her legs under the covers until her feet touch the hot, flannel-covered brick stowed underneath. With a sigh of contentment she shuts her eyes.
We wait, my souls and I.
Dali snores with a stuttering snuffle. This time, knowing what to look for, I watch a soft dim shape form over her head. My fingers reach to touch it, but I can feel nothing. Disappointed, I pull back.
Wait,
my
hun
soul advises.
Wait a bit.
Dali’s snoring grows regular, and I can hear a slight whining each time she exhales. The silhouette grows more defined, its edges like light shining from under a door. This time when I reach toward it, my ghost fingers touch its edge and it clings to me. I pull at it carefully, as though lifting a delicate curtain. As I step away from Dali, the shape balloons out. I glance back to see my souls peering anxiously at the portal as I step through and into Dali’s dream.
I’m in a theatre and onstage is Dali, in bright satin robes and face paint. She stands opposite a tall, handsome actor, on a floor painted with a river of clouds. It’s the tale of the Heavenly Weaver Maid and the Oxherd. Behind them cymbals clash and wooden flutes trill plaintively. Then the musicians quiet down and the hollow tok-tok-tok of drumsticks tapping on wooden fish signals a solo, the Weaver Maid’s lament to her lover. A musician pulls a bow across the strings of his
erhu,
and Dali begins:
“I once wove garments of stars for the Great Empress
Who favoured me with the peaches of immortality.
But I would throw my loom and all the fruit in those trees
To the furnaces of hell, ai, ai, ai!
For they keep me away from your love!
For they keep me away from your love!”
Her voice is thrilling and the audience of well-dressed older men surges to its feet to applaud as Dali gives them a stylized bow. The decorations on her headdress bob and she smiles coyly. She is Dali, yet not Dali. Her thin lips are plump and inviting, her bony hips now padded and swaying.
I hurry over to the stage and approach her leading man. I try to step into his figure, as I did with my own image in Weilan’s dream, but instead I walk right through him. I try the same manoeuvre, more cautiously, with Dali’s dream-self and find I can’t enter her shape either. Even though I know what the result will be, I stroll around the theatre touching members of the audience just in case I am able to inhabit one of their figures.
Then the theatre melts around me and I’m back in Dali’s room. She sits up drowsily and reaches over the side of the bed to pull out her chamber pot.
***
The Kwans are sound asleep. A dim aura fans out from both their heads. This time I don’t hesitate; I reach toward Mrs. Kwan. Threads from the silhouette cling to my fingers and as I step away it swells out. I can see shapes moving on the other side of the threshold. My souls watch me step over it.
Mrs. Kwan walks down the hard dirt road of a tiny farming village, her destination a small house at the end of the road. A fence of thin bamboo slats, more to keep the chickens in than people out, encloses the front yard, where a small girl is playing.
“Mama, Mama,” she calls out when she sees Mrs. Kwan. The little girl runs toward her, her gait awkward. She moves with a limp.
Mrs. Kwan drops her canvas sack and squats down to hug the child. I hadn’t known the Kwans had a daughter. A woman comes to the fence, her hair tied in a kerchief, a bowl of rice in her hand. Two half-naked toddlers hide behind the woman’s knees.
“Second Cousin,” she says. Her features shimmer and won’t hold still, but I catch an impression of slyness, large teeth, a lined face.
“We gave you money to look after her,” says Mrs. Kwan, anguish in her voice. She gets up to face the woman. “Enough to feed her and your own children. Now look at her.”
The girl droops in her arms, grey skin gleaming with sweat.
“We did our best,” says the woman dismissively. “She was feeble, she couldn’t do her share of the work.”
“You stupid, greedy peasant,” Mrs. Kwan screams, the child in her arms now no bigger than a doll. “You starved her to feed your own brats. Now she’s dead and you’ll get no more money for her keep.”
Tears roll down my cheeks. I can’t bear to watch so much pain. I raise my hand to wipe my eyes and feel something on my fingers. My fist clutches at threads, thin filaments that stretch across the road where a view of fields billows gently like a stage backdrop. I follow the threads and pull aside the edge of the dream. I step back into the real world. Mrs. Kwan moans in her sleep.
***
Old Kwan dreams of tea shops and pretty serving girls, of stealing an extra bit of ham to barter for tobacco. Astonishment and pleasure light up his face when a young man enters the kitchen. I realize that only in his dreams does Old Kwan have the son he longs for.
“We must find you a wife,” says Old Kwan, pushing a bowl of hot soy milk across the kitchen table toward his dream-son, who looks like a younger version of Kwan. “I’m getting the matchmaker to look into it, you know, to find a maidservant with the wealthy Mah clan. You could pick up seasonal work there from time to time.”
“Is she one of Old Ming’s granddaughters?” The young man’s white teeth flash. “We’ll end up related to half the town.”
They both laugh, more like brothers than father and son. I’ve never seen Old Kwan this happy in real life. I wish he could have a son instead of a dead daughter.
***
My souls don’t speak about my evident restlessness, but as the weeks go by they quiver with increasing agitation. My
yin
soul’s smiles are strained and there are dark shadows under her young eyes. My
yang
soul looks fatigued, no longer a vigorous older man, just old. Only my
hun
soul seems unchanged, but unless its radiance dims altogether, it would be difficult to detect any change in its bright shape.
I can no longer tell myself that boredom is what drives me to explore the world of dreams. The restless, pulling sensation is relentless. Was it only a few weeks ago that I said I would stay on the other side of dreams, to respect the living and their secrets? And now here I am, trying to journey into their sleep lives every night. But I can’t help myself.
***
It doesn’t seem as though there’s anything I can do to make a difference in this world, to help my daughter or anyone else.
I’m so frustrated. The sparks that are my souls circle the pavilion, bobbing like fireflies.
How am I supposed to make amends for Hanchin’s death?
Continue exploring the land of dreams,
says my
yang
soul.
There must be a reason why it’s open to you.
The real world hasn’t given you a way to communicate with the living,
my
yin
soul agrees.
You should continue to travel through the household’s dreams, we may learn something.
Leiyin, you seem reluctant to enter Baizhen’s dreams,
my
hun
soul observes.
I don’t want to know what they contain. If I don’t learn anything useful from spying on the servants, I’ll enter his sleep world. But not just yet.
The truth is I feel strangely envious when I watch him with his new wife. I’m reluctant to learn what his true feelings are for her.
***
Baizhen is unfailingly courteous to Meichiu. For one thing, he never mentions me. He shows her nothing but consideration. There’s never a trace of displeasure in his attitude, in the words he uses, or in his tone of voice. It’s not in him to be unkind and he would never let Meichiu feel unwanted. She’s lucky to be married to him. I wish I’d shown him more affection.
“Be careful, the bowl is quite hot,” Baizhen says, handing her some hot soy milk sweetened with cane syrup.
They’re in the parlour of the main house. Jia Po is upstairs taking her afternoon nap. Meichiu spends more time at the mansion than I ever did. She waits on Jia Po, fetches her reading glasses, reads out loud to her. If the old woman wants to go for a stroll in the garden, Meichiu kneels down at Jia Po’s feet to change her house slippers for shoes. Evidently Meichiu received better training in domestic rituals than I did. Was this how Jia Po had expected me to behave? What a disappointment I must have been.
“Thank you, Husband, for remembering how much I like sweet soy milk.” She seems genuinely grateful.
“Are you lonely here?” He sits down beside her. “You can invite one of your sisters for a visit. I know Pinghu is a dull place.”
To my surprise and Baizhen’s, she rises from her chair and sinks to her knees before him. She places her hands over his and looks into his face.
“I’m quite content living here, Husband. Your kindness is far greater than I expected. The matchmaker told us about your first wife. I can never be as beautiful or as learned, and my family isn’t from a great and wealthy clan, but I can be useful.”
Baizhen looks astonished.
Her next words come out in a rush.
“My parents say I’m
nen-gan
and it’s true. I’m a competent person and I’m not afraid of hard work. In time, I’ll find a way to make our family prosper.”
Her eyes betray anxiety at having spoken so directly, but her hands on Baizhen’s are firm and steady. I doubt she would have alluded to the family’s dwindling fortunes had Jia Po been in the room. A look passes between them. Baizhen’s expression is one I have never seen before. Is it relief? Hope?
Then Meichiu gives a businesslike nod and returns to her chair.
***
One morning, Dali hurries straight from Meichiu’s room to Jia Po, nearly bursting with excitement. Jia Po, in turn, bustles over to the house, followed by Dali and Mrs. Kwan. In the bedroom, Baizhen is holding Meichiu’s head over the chamber pot. Jia Po beams and helps Meichiu back into bed.
Baizhen tucks the covers around Meichiu and carefully wipes her pale lips. “For the past week she’s been queasy, Ma.”
“Good, good. Stay in bed, Daughter, and rest for an hour until the doctor’s office opens.” Jia Po spoons leaf tea into a pot. “I’ll have Dali bring breakfast to your room.”
Meichiu sinks down into the pillows and nods, an obedient smile fixed on her face. She looks different, something new in her smile, an awareness of her increased value. The household rouses to a new day, Meichiu at its centre.
T
hat quilt is useless lying on an empty bed,” says Jia Po. “Bring it to my room, Dali. You can keep the old cover for yourself if you like.”
The quilt I brought with me from Changchow still lies on my bed. Filled with goose down, light and warm, it’s the best quilt in the house and Jia Po has decided to take it for herself. It’s removable cover is made of soft cotton sheeting stitched to a warm flannel underside. I can sense Dali’s desire for a warmer cover tussling with her fear of using a dead woman’s belongings. She enters my room and tugs the cover off the quilt. But instead of taking the cover to her room she folds it neatly on the foot of my bed, then takes the quilt to Jia Po.
That night, Dali dreams of me.
She’s out doing errands, bundles dangling from her hands. Dali hurries down the Street of Lantern-Makers and through the door of the Three Lanterns Pastry Shop, the bakery with the best moon cakes in town. It’s Mid-Autumn Moon Festival time and the shop’s glass display case overflows with the different varieties: lotus-seed paste, sweet black-bean paste, red-bean paste, sesame paste, and with or without savoury egg fillings. She turns to one side, uncertain, and my dream image appears beside her, inspecting the pastries.
“Young Mistress, I forget which kind of cake the Mistress wanted me to buy.”
“The kind with egg yolks, Dali,” my image says. “Both the Mistress and the Young Master like those best.”
“But do you think the Mistress wants red-bean paste or lotus paste?”
My image wavers, fading out as Dali turns her attention back to the pastries. I step quickly into my dream image and feel a sensation of pins and needles throughout my body. My form grows solid. When another customer bumps against me, I stagger a little to recover my balance.
“Let’s get a dozen, half red bean and half lotus,” I suggest.
She nods and we leave the shop with a box tied with red string. The Street of Lantern-Makers melts away. Now we’re in a rickshaw, jouncing over potholes and heading toward the Temple of the City God. Dali doesn’t seem surprised to find me still beside her. On impulse, I put my hand on her forearm.
“Dali, don’t worry about the quilt cover. Please take it, with my blessings.”
She looks surprised, and then smiles. “Thank you, Young Mistress.”
