Three Souls (39 page)

“Let’s talk of something else, Mother. Come, let’s sit in the pavilion and catch a breath of fresh air.”

I take her by the elbow and guide her outside, through the bamboo grove. We mount the steps to the pavilion. With a sigh, she sinks down on the stone bench that rings its interior. She is in a summer-weight gown with short sleeves but the air is cold, the trees bare. The wisteria, however, is in bloom, its flowers hanging in pink cascades.

“What do you want to talk about, Daughter?” She looks older now.

“Mother, since Meichiu doesn’t want Amah Wu to look after her baby, I have a suggestion.”

Jia Po looks up, astonished.

“Little Ming has had her baby. Bring her back to be wet nurse and nanny. Let her bring her son. Meichiu’s child will need a playmate.”

“But you’re the one who sent Little Ming back to her family! You threw her out for getting pregnant.”

“I was wrong, Mother, very wrong. Please, bring her back. She’s lived with this family since she was a child. We’re responsible for her.”

I take her hands between mine. They are smooth, dry and soft as rice paper. Jia Po looks down at our hands.

“Are you speaking to me from the afterlife, Daughter-in-Law? Tell me, what’s it like?” Her voice is low and wistful. I squeeze her hands again, reassuringly.

“This is just a dream, Mother. You know that bringing Little Ming back to our home is the right thing to do, and you have dreamed about me so that I can tell you this. Will you please remember when you wake up?”

I leave her sitting beneath the wisteria.

***

A few days later, Little Ming arrives at the estate, her son in a sling across her chest and a change of clothing in her bag. She washes in the servants’ quarters before going to see Jia Po and Meichiu. Dali and Mrs. Kwan fuss over the baby while she bathes.

“You look older,” Dali says, but not in an unkind way. “You’ve lost weight.”

“You must take some food home with you,” says Mrs. Kwan. “You’ll never have enough milk for your son if you don’t eat well yourself.”

Little Ming smiles at them, a sad curve to her lips. She looks as if she’ll never giggle again. “Then I’d better eat it here. My father will take anything I bring back as payment for the food I eat at his table.”

“Even with a grandson!” Dali is indignant.

“Ah Jiao is a bastard,” Little Ming says quietly.

Ah Jiao. What a common, graceless name for the son of a poet.

“But he’s a boy!” Mrs. Kwan exclaims. “A girl in my village gave birth out of wedlock to a boy. Her parents were overjoyed to have a grandson finally, even a bastard.”

“My parents have four sons already. This one is just another mouth to feed.”

Hanchin’s son sleeps quietly in his bundle, his fists close to his chin. I peer at his face, looking for any resemblance to his father. So far he is more Little Ming than Hanchin. When Little Ming looks at her baby, I recognize in her eyes the same adoration I felt when Weilan had just been born.

Little Ming sighs deeply and straightens her shoulders.

“Here I go,” she says. “You don’t need to show me the way.”

Meichiu inspects Little Ming’s hands and nails. Little Ming’s tunic and trousers are wrinkled but clean, a plain green set she had sewn for herself the year before. I remember giving her the fabric.

Jia Po clears her throat. “How is your milk?”

“I have enough for two babies, Mistress. And in any case by the time the Young Mistress has hers, mine will be ready to eat congee.”

“You’ll be expected to wet nurse and nanny at the same time,” says Meichiu. “Weilan hasn’t had a nanny since you left.”

“I’d be happy to look after the Little Mistress again.”

“Did you bring your baby with you?” asks Meichiu.

“Yes, he’s in the kitchen with Mrs. Kwan. He’s very good, no trouble at all.”

“How are your parents treating you and the baby?” Jia Po asks with real concern.

“They’re very angry with me,” Little Ming says softly, not looking up. Tears glimmer in the corners of her eyes. “I’ve shamed them. Please, Mistress. I’ll do anything to come back.”

She drops to her knees on the floor, hands outstretched toward the older women. Her body shakes with silent sobs.

Jia Po looks at Meichu. Meichiu clears her throat.

“Mother, have you any objection to Little Ming coming back right away, to her former position of house servant and nanny? That way we’ll have time to observe her and be certain she’s healthy and free of illness before she begins as wet nurse.”

Jia Po doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, and she must be well-fed in advance so her milk is as nourishing as possible. Little Ming, come back in the morning with your things. And bring your son to live here also.”

Little Ming is nearly incoherent with gratitude. She backs out the door bowing repeatedly, mumbling her thanks. The two women watch from the window as Little Ming makes her way in a near-skip to the servants’ quarters. Jia Po sighs, relieved.

“I can see you care about her, Mother,” says Meichiu, picking up her sewing. “And she’s loyal to this family. She won’t be foolish again. In time, we may find her a husband.”

I hardly have a chance to feel grateful to Meichiu, for in that moment I am unburdened of a great weight, lifted closer to the portal. A glowing outline appears in the sky, brighter than ever. My souls circle toward it, exultant sparks springing higher.

Then my mind’s eye sees Little Ming’s future as it would have been, had I not intervened. She is tired and haggard, the only servant in a large house, in another town. She cleans the house and scrubs dishes, washes all the laundry, peels and chops vegetables for the cook, empties chamber pots. Little Ah Jiao is tied in a sling across her aching back as she works.

I see her on a narrow bed in a windowless room, struggling against a man who presses down on her, swearing while he forces open her legs. I see the man’s wife, the mistress of the house, screaming at her. I see Little Ming pushed out the door, clutching her cloth bag and her son. I see her sink down, exhausted, in a shop doorway, a cold winter wind blowing dead leaves toward her. She bends over Ah Jiao to shelter him from the cold.

I see another face now, a boy in his early teens who looks like Little Ming but with Hanchin’s glinting eyes. He throws a few coins into the bowl of a beggar, a woman with a vacant expression. His sleeve flaps when he tosses the coins, revealing elaborate gang tattoos on his forearm.

“I’m running errands for the big boss tomorrow,” he says to her. “Don’t go wandering if you want money from me. I had a hell of a time finding you today, Ma.” Words of exasperation and frustrated love.

This is the future I have averted for Little Ming and Ah Jiao.

***

The buoyant feeling stays with me all day. I glow with a sense of accomplishment. My
yang
soul looks stronger, a man in the prime of old age. My
yin
soul’s cheeks are rosy again, her eyes bright and lively. My
hun
soul shines brighter. My good deed has revived them.

But the next day, although the sensation of being pulled between heaven and earth has lessened, my emotions are restless and I sense that my souls are in turmoil too.

How many good deeds does it take to atone for a betrayal that cost a man his life?
I ask them.
Do I have other sins that need to be balanced out with good deeds?

There is silence as my souls consider this.

It doesn’t matter,
my
yang
soul says finally, tapping the handle of his cane.
We can’t know all the sins the gods considered worth recording in their ledger. You’ll just have to perform good deeds until we’re freed from this world.

But do it soon,
says my
hun
soul.

***

Dear Brother-in-Law,

I’m honoured to be of assistance to you in the matter of my niece’s education. I can recommend a young woman by the name of Wang Limou, and am enclosing a reference letter from her former employer. She has finished high school and was partway through college when the war put an end to her education. She is more than qualified to teach primary school. Since she lacks formal qualifications, she is willing to work for very little. I have paid her train fare to Pinghu.

Sincerely,
Song Tongyin

“Miss Wang was educated in Soochow,” Baizhen says, reading out loud to Jia Po. “Then she was a teacher’s assistant with a private girls’ school, but the school has been closed. She’s capable of teaching up to the middle-school level.”

“Soochow? The women of Soochow are immodest.” Jia Po sniffs. “Flirtatious. They can’t help it, with that accent. They sound like singsong girls even when they’re reciting the times tables.”

“We should respect my brother-in-law’s recommendation. In any case, he has bought the teacher a train ticket and she’s on her way. Miss Wang Limou is arriving at the end of the month.”

***

I tag along when Baizhen and Weilan go to the train station to meet the new tutor. The platform is crowded and chaotic, as usual. Departing travellers shove their way onto the train, ignoring the shouts of the station master imploring them to let the arriving passengers get off first. Baizhen can’t get near the train and stands on his toes to scan the crowd. Finally, with a belch and a whistle, the train rumbles away. The vendors sit down again to gossip, setting aside their trays of cigarettes and candies until the next train pulls in. The platform clears.

The only person left there is a young woman who’s being pestered by rickshaw drivers.

“Miss, miss, where are you going? I know every street in this town.”

“If you’re in a hurry, I can get you there faster than any of these louts.”

“That must be her, my teacher,” says Weilan excitedly. “Miss Wang Limou.” She has been oscillating between eagerness and anxiety all morning.

The young woman is my age, fragile and thin as a stalk of rice, her face framed by a straight, short bob. She carries a cloth suitcase and stands beside a cardboard box bound tightly with rope. From her haggard face and the way her clothing hangs, it’s evident she’s lost a great deal of weight at some point. Despite its age, her coat is well tailored and made from good cloth. Its deep blue makes her skin look sallow and draws attention to the dark circles around her eyes.

I would recognize those eyes anywhere.

It’s my old friend Wang Nanmei.

“I’m Wang Limou,” she says, bowing to Baizhen.

“Miss Wang, we’re very pleased to welcome you.”

She bows again, deeply. “Mr. Lee.”

There are strands of grey in her hair.

“I brought some books,” she adds, indicating the box. “I hope this isn’t too much luggage.”

“No, not at all. We’ll get a big bicycle rickshaw.”

A young man sidles up to Baizhen. “Mr. Lee, I’m Old Ming’s fifth grandson. I know exactly where you live.”

“But do you have a bicycle rickshaw?”

“Better. My cousin’s donkey cart is outside. I’ll take the young lady’s luggage.”

Baizhen makes small talk on the ride home, pointing out the town’s landmarks: temples, marketplace, the two main streets that run parallel to the canal. Nanmei says very little but glances from time to time at Weilan, who is wedged between her father and the new teacher. Finally their eyes meet and they exchange shy smiles.

“I hear you already know how to read,” Nanmei says.

Weilan nods, still shy.

“You’re very pretty, Weilan. You look like . . . like someone I used to know. And if you’re as clever too, it will be a joy to teach you.” The clatter of donkey hooves almost drowns out her quiet voice, but my sharp ghost ears catch its tremor, my eyes see the tears glinting in the corners of her eyes as she gazes at my daughter.

I know Nanmei will be kind to Weilan. She’ll appreciate my daughter’s quick mind. But what has happened? Her family was almost as wealthy as mine. And of all the tutors Tongyin could have found, how did he end up sending Nanmei?

***

Baizhen shows Nanmei upstairs to a small room beside the library. A chest of drawers and an old desk are the only furniture in the room besides the bed, which is merely a cot made up with a thin mattress and a quilt. Nanmei unpacks her few belongings, listening all the while to Weilan’s chatter.

“Do you want to put away your books, Teacher Wang? We have a library. Then we should wash our hands and go to dinner.”

“You have your own library?”

“Yes. It’s also the schoolroom.”

Nanmei follows Weilan next door into the library, toting the heavy box. She sets it down on the long table and looks around the room. Almost immediately she spies a framed photograph on the wall above the table and moves closer to look.

“That is my mother,” Weilan says eagerly. “And that’s me on her lap, when I was a baby.”

“Your mother was beautiful,” Nanmei says quietly.

“My father says she was the most beautiful woman in all of Pinghu. She taught me how to read. She taught Papa too. And she taught Little Ming, my nanny.”

“It sounds as though she was born to be a teacher.” Nanmei is close to tears but Weilan doesn’t notice.

Little Ming calls from below, “Little Mistress, come down and wash your hands. It’s nearly dinnertime.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming. I’m just showing Teacher Wang our schoolroom!”

***

Do you remember the letter Nanmei sent me when I was first married?
I ask my souls.
I replied to her so brusquely.

My yin soul, sitting at the library table, gives me a sideways glance and smooths out the pleats of her navy blue skirt.
It did read like a brush-off.

I had no way to warn her that Gong Gong felt entitled to read all of our letters, coming or going.

There was more to it than that, don’t you think?
My
yang
soul gives me a stern look.

I had prattled on to her about Hanchin and I was mortified that all my plans had unravelled and come to nothing, I admit. She was going to college and I wasn’t.