Three Souls (41 page)

“I suppose you were a much bigger family once,” says Nanmei, shutting the door. “Look, two eggs under that hydrangea shrub.”

Weilan kneels to reach into the leafy stalks, and when she scrambles up she adds two pale eggs to the basket.

“It’s so peaceful here, like another world,” Nanmei says, gazing toward the branches overhead, now nearly bare of leaves. “It must be beautiful when the fruit trees are in bloom.”

They round up the silkies and shut them in the coop.

After they leave, I drift over to the cottage door. Traces of grease still cling to the latch. I hope Nanmei didn’t see this clue to my affair. I’m just a ghost now, but somehow I still don’t want her to know.

***

Nanmei. How I waver between gratitude and jealousy. She’s a good teacher, patient and observant, always mindful of Weilan’s needs and interests, ready to fan curiosity into knowledge. She’s reserved and respectful with adults, but when she and Weilan are alone she’s as merry as a child. Her eyes shine with as much pleasure as Weilan’s when the two of them turn the pages of the books my sisters sent us years ago.

She explains each lesson instead of having Weilan just memorize the words, and takes her questions as seriously as though they come from an adult. Weilan would stay in the schoolroom all day but Nanmei insists on naps.

“You need to be rested so that what you learn can settle into your brain. Besides”—she laughs—“I need a rest too, just to keep up with you.”

Nanmei tells Baizhen that Weilan is quite possibly the cleverest little girl she has ever taught.

“Her mother was well-educated, and tutored her,” says Baizhen, beaming. “My first wife came from a fine family, a long line of scholars. But of course you know that if you know her brother.”

“He’s the friend of a friend. I can’t claim the honour of calling him my own friend.” She is courteous, but guarded.

***

When Weilan naps in the afternoon, Nanmei stays in the library. She seems to have set herself the task of examining all the books there. She pulls each one out in turn, flipping through pages but rarely seeming to read. She marks her day’s progress with a slip of paper tucked between two volumes and, at the next opportunity, starts her inspection again from there. She even looks through the used exercise books I could never bring myself to throw out: they contain Weilan’s earliest efforts at writing.

I must find a way to enter her dream life. I wait each night beside her bed, watching for a sign that she has finally settled into a sleep deep enough to hold dreams.

On a night when the moon is full, I visit Nanmei as I often do, but this time she doesn’t sleep at all. She pulls her coat on over her nightclothes. Her cloth shoes slide silently along the veranda and down the stairs, which are repaired now and don’t creak. Her trembling fingers press the latch of my bedroom door and she slips inside. The door closes behind her softly.

The moon floods the room with cold, brilliant light, casting long shadows as she moves swiftly through the space, first running her hand over the top shelf of the armoire, then pulling open the wide drawer at the bottom. She even feels inside the pockets of the two winter coats hanging there. Then she checks each drawer of my bureau, which holds neatly folded blouses and skirts, untouched since my death. She lifts and replaces the items carefully. Next she lifts the lid of my storage trunk, releasing the scent of mothballs, rummaging all the way to the bottom, beneath the piles of winter clothing and blankets.

Finally she shuts the bedroom door and steals down the path to the outhouse. She disappears behind the screen of oleander shrubs. But instead of entering the outhouse, she slips to the other side and in a few seconds is at the orchard gate.

Inside the orchard, the silkies cluck softly in their coop, then fall silent again. Nanmei pushes open the cottage door. Moonlight shines through the small windows, casting a leafy pattern of shadows which wavers with the breeze. She pulls a candle from her pocket and lights it. Looking around, she dribbles some wax on a broken tile and presses the candle onto its cracked surface. With her makeshift lamp in hand, she searches the cottage, reaching under the old bed, groping in drawers, even lifting up the dirty mattress. She sets the candle down to search the wardrobe, and unrolls the musty sheets and quilts I had stowed there for my trysts with Hanchin. Finally, with a sigh, she blows out the candle.

Outside, she leans against the trunk of a peach tree, exhausted. She’s shaking, and I know it has nothing to do with the evening chill. Nanmei returns to her room, silent and unobserved. She curls up in bed and sobs quietly, the quilt pulled over her head. She doesn’t sleep, just dozes fitfully as usual. This tormented young woman who holds her secrets so close bears no resemblance to the lively, spirited girl who was my best friend.

Not every night, but a few times each week now, Nanmei searches the unoccupied rooms of the house. Each of her forays is brief, a few minutes at most is all that she dares. When Baizhen takes Meichiu and Weilan to the movie theatre one afternoon, Nanmei takes her time, searching their rooms while Little Ming gossips in the kitchen with Old Kwan.

I know why she is searching. If only she would dream.

***

In the new year, an event of supreme importance brings Gong Gong back from his self-imposed exile. The moment Meichiu goes into labour, Jia Po sends Little Ming running for the midwife while Baizhen sends a donkey cart to Infant Mountain to bring his father home. The cart driver, pleased to be part of a joyous event that will bring him a good fee, slaps his animal’s flanks with a willow stick and sets it trotting. The cart makes the trip at top speed and within a few hours Gong Gong is at the front gate, bellowing at Old Ming to open the door.

Meichiu has done her duty, and very quickly too. Jia Po is so happy she leaves off scolding her husband.

“A healthy, big boy!” she cries, as soon as Gong Gong steps over the threshold. “Husband, we have a grandson!”

***

When I married Baizhen, Gong Gong and Jia Po became my parents. Their wishes superseded those of my own father. Yet as a daughter-in-law, I had been less than a true daughter of the house, no matter how much my in-laws approved of me, no matter how much Baizhen loved me. Only bringing a grandson would have elevated my status, and in this I had failed.

Meichiu is now securely positioned in the family. For the moment she is completely absorbed with motherhood, all of her waking hours spent in bed cuddling her son, or in the nursery watching him suckle at Little Ming’s round breasts. Jia Po practically lives in the nursery, fussing over Meichiu and the baby, who has yet to be named. In fact, everyone seems to spend all their spare time in the nursery. Baizhen is as proud as a rooster when he holds the infant. Mrs. Kwan and Dali always find reasons to peek in. Weilan rushes in between lessons to admire the baby.

Only Gong Gong, temporarily absorbed in the important task of selecting a name for his grandson, doesn’t join the crowd around the baby. He spends hours in his study consulting family genealogies; he visits his grandson only on occasion, as if for inspiration.

“Look at how his mouth pulls at her teat,” Jia Po declares. “He won’t be a fussy eater.”

“How strong he is, see how his little legs kick,” says Baizhen, smoothing down the soft black hair on the baby’s round skull.

Sitting beside Little Ming, Meichiu says nothing, but smiles contentedly. Weilan leans over Little Ming’s shoulder, a rapt, adoring look on her face.

“Isn’t he a handsome little brother?” Baizhen asks, noticing her expression. She nods and carefully strokes the downy dark hair with one finger.

Little Ming looks up at Baizhen reproachfully and whispers, “Young Master, you’re tempting the evil spirits.” Then, louder, she says, “This child is cross-eyed and will grow up to be bad-tempered. I can tell by the way he sucks.”

From the other side of the room, Ah Jiao is crying, hungry for his lunch and for his mother’s attention. Little Ming looks up, apologetic.

“There’s some congee over there in a bowl,” she says. “I’ll feed him later.”

“In the meantime, he’s disturbing the baby,” says Jia Po crossly.

Nanmei picks up Ah Jiao, puts him over her shoulder smoothly, and picks up the bowl and spoon.

“It’s all right. I’ll take him next door into Weilan’s room and give him his meal in there.”

Gong Gong finally names his grandson Lee Weihong. Then he composes a birth announcement and sends it out to be printed on sheets of red paper flecked with gold. When the order arrives my in-laws work in tandem, Gong Gong addressing envelopes while Jia Po stuffs them. As the envelopes pile up, their conversation grows more animated. There’s no longer any hint of animosity between them.

***

Enchanted by his son these days, Baizhen spends less time with Weilan. Who can blame him? What could be more joyful than the birth of a son? As for Meichiu, my worst fear had been that she would grow cold to Weilan, perhaps even turn cruel once her position in the family was secure. But so far nothing of the sort has transpired. Now that she’s mother to the heir of the family, Meichiu concentrates on running the household. She asserts herself with a confidence that testifies to a lifetime of lessons passed down from a practical mother.

She begins with the housekeeping budget.

“You’ve spent enough years poring over the accounts,” she says to Jia Po. “Please let me look after the expenses so that you can spend more time with your new grandson.”

Jia Po gives in with barely a murmur of protest.

I used to do the accounts but only to record what we’d already spent, or to try to estimate just how poor we would be in a few years’ time. Meichiu is from a newly prosperous merchant family and better understands how to rein in costs.

She takes an inventory of food supplies in the kitchen. She plans meals a week in advance, sitting with Old Kwan at the kitchen table with the cupboards open to see what the cook might need for the days ahead. Her menus are full of tofu and eggs, vegetables and fish. Pork is on the menu only once a week, chicken and beef very rarely.

She investigates closets and drawers, pulling out fabric stored for decades and shaking out packets of mothballs so old the naphthalene has evaporated down to tiny white granules, like seed pearls.

“We don’t need to buy any cloth this year,” she says, holding up a length of silk brocade. “This material has been hidden away for such a long time, it should all be used.”

“But, Daughter,” protests Jia Po, looking at the pile of cloth. “This silk velvet is too good to use for ordinary clothing, and so is this fine embroidered cotton.”

“How old is the cotton?” Meichiu holds up the fabric to display a number of moth holes.

“My own mother gave it to me the year I was married. It’s European.”

“Mother, if we don’t use these fabrics, they will just go to waste. It costs less to sew what we have than to buy more cloth.”

Soon Gong Gong receives a new jacket of silk velvet finer than any he has ever worn, and a small round cap to match. Meichiu sews blouses for Jia Po from the embroidered cotton, the pieces carefully cut to hide or trim moth holes. The blue silk brocade turns into a padded jacket for Baizhen. The leftovers are enough to make Weilan tunics and trousers.

Meichiu is good for the family, I have to admit this.

***

No one dreams about me anymore. I’ve been dead just over a year. Meichiu’s baby, Gong Gong’s return. They have other things to think about.

Perhaps they do dream about you,
my
yin
soul says.
You just don’t happen to be in their dreams at the right time.
She wafts the fragrance of osmanthus blossom in my direction, but it fails to soothe me.

The family is completely besotted with the baby. I’m the last thing on their minds. Do you see how comfortable Baizhen looks with his new wife?

Are you jealous?
my
hun
soul asks.
You were never in love with him.

Well, of course I’m glad that he has a wife who’s so good to him. And that he has a son. I just thought it would take him longer to forget me.

He remembers you. He loves you still. But he always was in awe of you,
says my
hun
soul.
He just finds Meichiu simpler to understand.

Perhaps he’ll dream of you again,
says my
yin
soul,
when the baby is older and the household has settled into a routine again.

We all know this needs to happen soon.

How are you feeling?
my
yang
soul asks. He’s anxious. There is an iron tang in my mouth.

I’m all nerves,
I admit.
Even when I’m watching Weilan sleep I feel restless and unsettled. It’s driving me insane.

There’s a silence and I realize what I’ve said.
That’s just a figure of speech,
I say quickly.
I’m nowhere near turning into an insane hungry ghost. Don’t you think you’d be the first to know?

***

“Your brother-in-law is coming to visit,” Gong Gong says, and hands the letter to Baizhen.

Baizhen hastens to explain to Meichiu. “It’s from my first wife’s brother, Weilan’s Second Uncle. He introduced Teacher Wang to us.”

Congratulations on the birth of your son. Although he isn’t of my blood, it cheers me to know that you have an heir, and my niece a brother. I wish to convey our family’s congratulations in person. I would also like to see for myself whether Miss Wang has proven a good tutor. I’ll be in Shanghai on business on the fifteenth of this month. I’ll take the train to Pinghu from there. I will stay only for one or two days.

How I wish the stories about ghostly powers were true. Then I could appear at will anywhere, in Changchow or Shanghai, even Hong Kong, to learn what my sisters are doing, to spy on Tongyin, to uncover what Nanmei is up to.

When she learns about Tongyin’s visit, Nanmei sleeps even less. She’s up every night searching the estate. She even looks in the chicken coop one afternoon when Weilan is out with Jia Po. If Nanmei can’t tell me anything through her dreams, I’ll have to wait for my brother. In a few days I can spy on his conversations with Nanmei, even try to enter his dreams.