(2001) The Bonesetter's Daughter Page 19

  A few days later, we had a proper funeral for Great-Granny. Everyone wailed loudly, but Mother was the loudest, as was the custom, she being the number-one-ranking lady of the house. She did a very good job sounding sad beyond hope. And I, too, cried, sad but also afraid. And when the funeral was over, I became nervous of what would happen next: Mother would make Precious Auntie leave.

  But she did not, and this was why.

  Mother believed Great-Granny was still around, haunting the outhouse and making sure everyone still followed her rules. Every time Mother squatted over the hole, she heard a voice asking, “Have you seen Hu Sen?” When she told us this, Third Aunt said, “The sight of your bare bottom should have scared away any ghost.” And we all laughed, but Mother became angry and announced she was cutting off everyone’s allowance for the next month. “To teach you to have more respect for Great-Granny,” she said. For the ghost in the outhouse, Mother went to the village temple every day and gave special offerings. She went to Great-Granny’s grave and burned silver paper, so Great-Granny could buy her way to a better level. After ninety days of constipation, Mother went back to the funerary ship and bought a paper automobile large as life, complete with chauffeur. Great-Granny had seen a real one once at a temple fair in the Mouth of the Mountain. It was in the parking lot where carts and donkeys were kept, and when the automobile roared away, she said, it was loud enough to scare the devil and fast enough to fly to heaven.

  So the paper auto went up in flames, and Great-Granny’s ghost traveled from the latrine to the World of Yin. And then our household went back to its normal, noisy ways. For the rest of the family, the concerns were on little daily matters: mold in the millet, a crack in the glass, nothing at all of lasting importance.

  And only I worried about what would happen to Precious Auntie.

  I remember the day Mother received a surprise letter from Peking. It was the period of Great Heat, when mosquitoes were their happiest and fruit left outside rotted in less than an hour under the sun. Great-Granny had been dead for more than ninety days. We sat in the shade of the big tree in the courtyard, waiting to hear the news.

  We all knew the letter writer, Old Widow Lau. She was a cousin, within eight degrees of kinship on Father’s side and five degrees on Mother’s side, close enough to follow the mourning rituals of family. She had come to Great-Granny’s funeral and had wailed as loudly as the rest of us.

  Since Mother could not read, she asked GaoLing, and I had to hide my disappointment that she had been chosen for this important task. GaoLing smoothed her hair, cleared her throat, licked her lips, then read: ” ‘Dear Cousin, I send greetings from all those who have asked after you with deep feeling.’” GaoLing then stumbled through a long list of names, from those of brand-new babies to people Mother was sure were already dead. On the next page, our old cousin wrote something like this: “I know you are still in mourning and barely able to eat because of grief. So it is not a good time to invite everyone to come visit in Peking. But I have been thinking about what you and I discussed when we last saw each other at the funeral.”

  GaoLing broke off reading and turned to Mother. “What did you discuss?” I, too, was wondering this.

  Mother slapped GaoLing’s hand. “Don’t be nosy. You just read, and I’ll tell you what you should know.”

  The letter continued: “‘I wish to humbly suggest that your number-one daughter’”—she was speaking of me, and my heart swelled— “‘come to Peking and accidentally meet a distant relation of mine.’” GaoLing threw me a scowl, and I was pleased she was jealous. ” ‘This relation,’ ” GaoLing went on reading in a less enthusiastic voice, ” ‘has four sons, who are seventh cousins of mine, three times removed, with a different surname. They live in your same village, but are barely related to you, if at all.’”

  When I heard the words “barely related,” I knew this accidental meeting meant she wanted to see whether I might be a marriage match for a certain family. I was fourteen (this was by my Chinese age), and most of the girls my age were already married. As to which family, Old Widow Lau did not want to say, unless she knew for certain that our family believed such an accident could be beneficial. “To be honest,” she wrote, “I would not have thought of this family on my own. But the father came to me and asked about LuLing. They have apparently seen the girl and are impressed with her beauty and sweet nature.”

  My face flushed. At last Mother knew what others were saying about me. Perhaps she might see these good qualities in me as well.

  “I want to go to Peking, too,” GaoLing said like a complaining cat.

  Mother scolded her: “Did anyone invite you? No? Well, then, you only look stupid for saying you want to go.” When she whined again, Mother yanked her braid and said, “Shut your mouth,” before handing me the letter to finish reading.

  I sat up straight, facing Mother, and read with much expression: ‘“The family suggests a meeting at your family’s ink shop in Peking.’” I stopped a moment and smiled at GaoLing. I had never seen the shop, nor had she. ” ‘In this way,’” I continued, ” ‘if there is any disharmony of interest, there will be no public embarrassment to either family. If both families are in agreement about the match, then this will be a blessing from the gods for which I can take no credit.’”

  “No credit,” Mother said with a snort, “just a lot of gifts.”

  The next part of the letter went like this: “A good daughter-in-law is hard to find, I’m sure you will agree. Perhaps you remember my second daughter-in-law? I am ashamed to admit that she has turned out to be coldhearted. Today she suggested that your daughter’s nursemaid should not accompany her to Peking. She said that if a person were to see the two together, he would remember only the shocking ugliness of the nursemaid and not the emerging beauty of the maiden. I told her that was nonsense. But as I write this letter, I realize now that it would be inconvenient to accommodate another servant, since mine already complain that there is not enough room for them to sleep in one bed. So perhaps it would be better if the nursemaid does not come after all. I apologize that nothing can be done about the poverty of our household… .”

  Only when I was done reading did I look up at Precious Auntie, embarrassed. Never mind, she signed to me quietly. I’ll tell her later that I can sleep on the floor. I turned to Mother, waiting to hear what more she had to say.

  “Write a letter back. Tell Old Widow Lau that I will have you go in a week. I’d take you myself, but it’s the ink season and we have too much to do. I’ll ask Mr. Wei to take you in his cart. He always makes a medical delivery to Peking on the first and won’t mind an extra passenger in exchange for a little cash.”

  Precious Auntie napped her hands for my attention. Now is the time to tell her you can’t go alone. Who will make sure it’s a good marriage? What if that busybody idiot cousin tries to barter you off as a second wife to a poor family? Ask her to consider that.

  I shook my head. I was afraid to anger Mother with a lot of unnecessary questions and ruin my chances to visit Peking. Precious Auntie tugged my sleeve. I ignored her. Lately I had done this a few times, and it infuriated Precious Auntie. Since she could not speak and Mother could not read, when I refused to talk for her, she was left wordless, powerless.

  Back in our room, Precious Auntie beseeched me. You are too young to go to Peking by yourself. This is more dangerous than you can imagine. You could be killed by bandits, your head chopped off and put on a stake. . . . I did not answer her, I did not argue, I gave her no ground on which to keep her footing. On and on she went that day, the next, and the day after that. At times, she expressed anger at what Old Widow Lau had written. That woman does not care about what’s best for you. She sticks her nose in other people’s business for money. Soon she’ll stink like the bottoms she’s been smelling.

  Later Precious Auntie handed me a letter, which I was supposed to give to GaoLing so she could read it to Mother. I nodded, and as soon as I was out of the room and around the corn
er, I read it: “Besides all the shooting and unrest, the summer air there is full of diseases. And in Peking, there are strange ailments we have never even experienced here, maladies that could make the tips of LuLing’s nose and fingers fall off. Luckily, I know the remedies to treat such problems so that LuLing does not return home bringing with her an epidemic… .”

  When Precious Auntie asked me if I had given Mother the letter, I made my face and heart a stone wall. “Yes,” I lied. Precious Auntie sighed, relieved. This was the first time she had believed a lie of mine. I wondered what had changed within her that she could no longer sense if I was telling the truth. Or was it I who had changed?

  The night before I was to leave, Precious Auntie stood before me with the letter, which I had wadded into a little ball and stuffed in a pocket of my trousers. What is the meaning of this? She grabbed my arm.

  “Leave me alone,” I protested. “You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

  You think you ‘re so smart? You ‘re still a silly baby.

  “I’m not. I don’t need you anymore.”

  If you had a brain then you wouldn’t need me.

  “You want to keep me here only so you won’t lose your position as nursemaid.”

  Her face turned dark, as if she were choking. Position? You think I am here only for a lowly position as your nursemaid? Ai-ya! Why am I still alive to hear this child say such things?

  Our chests were heaving. And I shouted back what I had often heard Mother and my aunts say: “You’re alive because our family was good and took pity on you and saved your life. We didn’t have to. And Baby Uncle never should have tried to marry you. It was bad luck that he tried. That’s why he was killed by his own horse. Everyone knows it.”

  Her whole body slumped, and I thought she was acknowledging that I was right. At that moment, I pitied her in the same way I pitied beggars I could not look in the eye. I felt I had grown up at last and she had lost her power over me. It was as if the old me was looking at the new me, admiring how much I had changed.

  The next morning, Precious Auntie did not help me with my bundle of clothes. She did not prepare a lunch I could take along. Instead, she sat on the edge of the k’ang, refusing to look at me. The sun was not up yet, but I could see that her eyes were red and puffy. My heart wobbled, but my mind was firm.

  Two hours before daybreak, Mr. Wei came by with his donkey loaded with cages of snakes for medicine shops. I tied on a scarf to keep the sun off my face. As I climbed into the cart next to him, everyone except Precious Auntie was standing at the gate to see me off. Even GaoLing was there with her unwashed face. “Bring me back a doll,” she shouted. At thirteen, she was still such a baby.

  The day was a long ride of never-ending dust. Whenever the donkey stopped to drink water, Mr. Wei dipped a large rag into the stream and wrapped it around his head to keep himself cool. Soon I was doing the same with my scarf. At lunchtime, Mr. Wei pulled out a tin with dumplings inside. I had nothing. I had not wanted to ask Old Cook to fix me a tin. tor tear he would tell Mother that it was too much of a nuisance to send me to Peking. Of course. Mr. Wei ottered me some of his food. And naturally, I pretended that I was not hungry. And then he ottered only twice more; the last offer never came. So I had to ride the rest of the way with an empty stomach and eight cages of ugly snakes.

  In the late afternoon, we approached Peking. I instantly revived from the listlessness of the heat and my hunger. When we entered the inspection station, I worried that we would be refused permission to go on. A policeman with a cap poked through my small bundle and looked inside the cages with Mr. Wei’s snakes.

  “What is your reason for being in Peking?” the policeman asked.

  “Delivery of medicine.” Mr. Wei nodded to the snake cages.

  “Marriage,” I answered truthfully, and the policeman turned to another and called out my answer and they both laughed. After that, they let us go in. Soon I saw a tall memorial archway in the distance, its gold letters glinting like the sun. We passed through this and entered a roadway as wide as the greatest of rivers. Rickshaws raced by, more in one glance than I had seen in a lifetime. And over there, an automobile, like the paper one Mother had burned tor Great-Granny. I began to measure all the sights in comparison with my life before. The markets were larger and louder. The streets were filled with busier crowds. I saw men in loose-weave long jackets, others in Western suits. Those men looked more impatient, more important. And there were many girls in floating dresses, wearing hairstyles exactly like those of famous actresses, the fringe in front crimped like dried noodles. I thought they were prettier than any of the girls in Immortal Heart. We passed walkways lined with peddlers selling every kind of bird, insect, and lizard on a stick, and they were ten times more expensive than the best snack we could buy in our own town. Farther on, I saw persimmons that were more golden, peanuts that were fatter, and sugar-coated haws that were a shinier red. I heard a crisp crack, saw the freshly opened gut of a more delicious-looking melon. And those who could not resist a slice looked more satisfied than any other melon-eaters I had ever seen.

  “If you gawk any more, your head will twist right off,” Mr. Wei said. I kept tallying the sights in my head so I could tell everyone all that I had seen. I was imagining their awe, Mother’s admiration, GaoLing’s envy. I could also see the disappointment in Precious Auntie’s face. She would not want me to have a good time. So I pushed her out of my mind.

  Mr. Wei stopped several times to ask for directions to a certain shop near Lantern Market Street, then went looking for a particular alleyway, and finally we stood in front of the gate that led into the cramped courtyard of Old Widow Lau’s house. Two dogs ran toward me, barking.

  “Ai! Are you a girl or a yellow mud statue!” Old Widow Lau said in greeting. Dirt ringed my neck, my hands, every place where my body had a crease or a bend. I stood in a four-walled courtyard compound that was so chaotic my arrival raised almost no notice. Right away, Old Widow Lau told me dinner was almost ready so I’d better hurry and wash up. She handed me a beaten bucket and told me where the well pump was. As I filled the bucket, I recalled that Mother had said Peking water was sweet. I took a sip, but it was brackish, terrible-tasting. No wonder Precious Auntie had told me that Peking was once the wasteland of the bitter sea. Just then, I realized this was the first time she was not there to help me with my bath. Where was the tub? Where was the stove for warming the water? I was too scared to touch anything. I squatted behind a mat shed and poured cold water over my neck, angry with Precious Auntie for turning me into such a stupid girl, one now afraid to show everyone how stupid I really was.

  After I finished, I realized I had not thought to bring a comb for my hair or wooden sticks for cleaning under my nails. Precious Auntie always remembered those things for me. She was the reason I forgot! At least I had brought a clean shirt-jacket and trousers. But of course, these were wrinkled and dusty when I pulled them out from my bundle.

  During the evening meal, another thought came to me. This was the first time I did not have Precious Auntie telling me which things I should and should not eat. For that I was glad. “Not too many greasy-spicy things,” she would have warned, “or you’ll break out in boils and other dampness diseases.” So I ate several helpings of spicy pork. But later I had a queasy feeling and worried that my stomach was blistering inside out.

  After dinner, I sat in the courtyard with Old Widow Lau and her daughters-in-law, listening to the buzz of mosquitoes and gossiping voices. I slapped the insects away, recalling the big fan Precious Auntie used to chase the heat and the bugs from both of us. When my eyes kept falling down, Old Widow Lau told me to go find my bed. So I went to the sad little shed that held my bundle and a rope-cot. As I fingered the holes of the cot’s rattan weave, I realized yet another thing: This was the first time I had to sleep by myself. I lay down and closed my eyes. As I tumbled into thoughtlessness, I heard rats scratching along the wall. I leaned over to see if cups of turpentine had been
placed under the legs of the cot. They had not. And again, rather than be grateful that Precious Auntie had always done all these things for me, I blamed her for keeping me so stupid.

  When I awoke, I found I had no one to fix my hair or inspect my ears and nails. Having no comb, I used my fingers to undo the tangles. The shirt-jacket and trousers I had worn to bed were sweaty, and no fresh clothes lay in their place. They were not suitable to wear for my accidental meeting that day. And the costume that I had chosen to wear now did not look quite right, but that was all I had thought to bring. I was a grown girl, and there I was, helpless and stupid beyond belief. That was how well Precious Auntie had raised me.

  When I appeared before Old Widow Lau, she exclaimed, “Is your head just an empty eggshell? Why are you wearing a padded jacket and winter trousers? And what’s the matter with your hair?”

  How could I answer? That Precious Auntie had refused to advise me? The truth was, when I had chosen these clothes, I was thinking only that I should bring my best things with the nicest embroidery. And my best had not seemed too uncomfortable when I had put them in my bundle during the cooler hours of the morning the day before.

  “What a disaster!” Old Widow Lau muttered as she flung about all the clothing I had brought. “Pity the family that takes in this stupid girl for a daughter-in-law.” She hurried to her trunks to search among the slim dresses of her youth. At last she settled on a dress borrowed from one of her daughters-in-law, a lightweight chipao that was not too old-fashioned. It had a high collar, short sleeves, and was woven in the colors of summer foliage, lilac for the body and leafy green for the trim and frog clasps. Old Widow Lau then undid my messy braids and dragged a wet comb through my hair.

  At noon she announced we were leaving for the ink shop. She informed her servant we would not eat our lunch at home. She was certain her cousin the inkmaker was preparing a special meal at his place. “If the other family is also there,” she warned me, “eat a little of each dish to show you are not picky, but don’t be greedy. Let others be served first and act like you are the least important.”