They seem to be waiting for something.
‘See that big fish,’ Ting Ting says. She points to a fat red fish with a mouth almost as wide as its body. ‘He understands human talk. Ask him if he’s hungry.’
I shake my head. I’d feel stupid talking to a fish.
‘Go on.’ Ting Ting prods me in the back.
I look across at Por Por. She’s busy pulling weeds out of a small pot on a wooden ledge.
‘Fine,’ I say. I lean over the pond and look down into the water. ‘Are you hungry?’ I say hurriedly.
The other fish are still swimming around, but the big mouth fish stops and stares. It’s weird. He looks at me with his great big googly eyes and I’m sure he’s going to say something.
‘See, I told you,’ laughs Ting Ting. ‘Go on, get closer to the water and ask him again. He’ll answer you.’
I look at her. I look at the fish. I feel as if she’s playing with me like a cat plays with a mouse. But I do as she says. I kneel on the edge of the pond. ‘Are you hungry?’ I say to the fish.
The fish closes his mouth and darts away, flicking his thick tail. A wave of foul water splashes into my eyes and mouth. It’s disgusting. I cough and splutter.
‘Oh, Little Cloud,’ says Por Por, coming up to us. ‘You have to keep away from that naughty old fish. Aiya. Didn’t Ting Ting tell you?’
Por Por doesn’t see Ting Ting giggling behind her hand. She takes a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to me. ‘Would you like to feed the fish? It’s their meal time.’
‘No, thank you, Por Por,’ I say, wiping my face. ‘I’ll just watch. Maybe next time.’
Por Por takes a pinch of fish food from a blue jar and sprinkles it across the water. ‘There, you see? That’s how it’s done. Not too much and not too little.’
As soon as the fish flakes land on the surface, the fat red fish chases the little ones away. Then he opens his huge mouth and sucks in most of the food. He’s such a bully.
‘What about the little fish, Por Por?’ I ask. ‘Won’t they go hungry?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about them,’ she replies. ‘Those little ones are smart. Watch.’
And she’s right. The little ones swim down and wait for the food as it sinks to the bottom of the pond amongst the weeds.
‘When you are small, you have to be smart to survive,’ she says, smiling. I know Por Por is talking about herself. Mama told me that Por Por left home when she was only twelve years old.
‘Come, let’s go inside,’ Por Por says.
The house is old and made of wood. I step through the carved front entrance and Por Por hands me a pair of silk slippers to wear. We do that at home, too. It’s a Chinese custom. I take off my shoes and slide them into a compartment in the shoe cabinet. As we walk, our slippers make shush shush shush sounds on the wooden floorboards. Then we step onto a big blue-and-white rug that fills most of the room. It’s beautiful and so soft to walk on. There are white cranes flying across ribbons of clouds. Mama told me that white cranes are the symbol of long life.
‘Take Little Cloud’s coat, Ting Ting, while I make some hot chocolate,’ says Por Por, and she disappears into what must be the kitchen.
‘I can make it, Por,’ Ting Ting calls out.
‘No, you two get to know each other. I won’t be long.’
Ting Ting takes off her rainbow scarf and throws it onto a chair. She doesn’t take my coat, so I put it on the arm of the couch and sit down. I can see her out of the corner of my eye circling the room like a hungry lioness. She’s making me nervous.
Against one wall is a cabinet with a row of little brown teapots and some framed photos. I stand up to take a closer look so that I don’t have to think about Ting Ting.
There’s the one taken at home on Christmas Day a year ago. Papa took it as Mama unwrapped the earrings we gave her and held them up to the camera, smiling. I’m pulling a funny face and Robbie has his arms around Mama’s neck. I look at our faces and think how happy we were back then. It’s like looking at a forest before a bushfire. Every tree standing tall, leaves facing the sun, taking in the warmth, not suspecting what’s going to happen next. Papa said once that forests regrow. That after a devastating fire they become stronger than ever. But I’m not so sure about that anymore.
There’s also a picture of my aunt and uncle, Mama’s brother and his wife, outside their milkbar in Tiger Bay. Tiger Bay is a small town, right on the sea, about eighty kilometres from where we live in Australia. Mama said we’d buy a holiday house there one day. But that won’t happen now.
Suddenly, Ting Ting swoops on me, shoving her face in mine and making me jump. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she says.
I don’t dare look into her flashing eyes, so I stare instead at a silver locket on a black silk cord hanging around her neck. It has Chinese symbols delicately carved into its surface. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s mesmerising.
Ting Ting stands over me, then straightens, sniffs the air and walks out the front door, slamming it shut behind her. I stare after her in disbelief.
‘Hao le, hot chocolate is ready,’ says Por Por, carrying a tray with three mugs into the room. She puts the tray down on the table. ‘Where’s Ting Ting? I heard the front door. Did she go out?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Did she say where she was going?’
I shake my head.
Por Por lets out a small sigh. Then she hands me one of the mugs and a steamed bun filled with red bean paste.
Por Por and I sit and talk. I tell her about my best friends, Jess and Bronte. How we’ve known each other since kindergarten and how we play music together. We’re an all-girl band called Cedar Jam. Jess plays drums, Bronte is on bass guitar, and I sing and play lead guitar. I want to be a singer when I grow up. Por Por says she would like to hear me sing when I feel like it. She tells me about Mama when she was a little girl and shows me lots of black-and-white photos.
Sometimes there’s a gap in the conversation and I hear the singsong cry of a peddlar out in the alley, the tinkle of a bell talking on the breeze, the walls stretching and sighing around us.
‘Come, Little Cloud. I’ll show you to your room,’ Por Por says when we finish our afternoon tea.
I walk with Por Por down the hall. She opens one of the doors. ‘This used to be your mama’s room when she was a little girl,’ she says, smiling. ‘Have a rest. I’ll wake you when dinner is ready.’
‘Xie xie, thank you, Por Por,’ I say, suddenly feeling tired.
There’s a single bed and a low bedside table with an orange lamp. Under the window sits a chest of drawers, and next to that a small desk and chair. On the wall above the desk hangs a photo of Mama standing beside her father. Mama looks to be about my age when the photo was taken. I touch her young face.
I open my backpack and take out the brown box with Mama’s ashes in it. I put it on the low table beside the bed.
It’s strange lying in Mama’s old room. I look up at the ceiling, the same ceiling Mama used to lie under, and as I drift off to sleep I know I’m hearing the same sounds Mama used to hear a lifetime ago.
Por Por wakes me up and I smell something delicious. I wasn’t hungry before because I ate so much on the plane, but suddenly I’m starving. Por Por has put a big plate of fried dumplings on the table.
I’m glad that Ting Ting is nowhere to be seen.
Before we start, Por Por says a prayer. ‘Thank you to the animals who have given up their lives so that we may eat,’ she says. ‘And thank you to the farmers who laboured so hard to put this food on our table.’ Por Por picks up her chopsticks. ‘Let’s begin,’ she says, smiling.
The dumplings are the best I’ve ever tasted. They are filled with vegetables all finely chopped. I dip one in Chinese vinegar, and when I bite into it the delicious juice fills my mouth.
‘I suppose you’re wondering about Ting Ting,’ Por Por says after a while. ‘I don’t know if your mama told you about her.’
‘Just a little,’ I say.
Por Por puts her chopsticks down and sits back. ‘She has been with me ever since her parents died three years ago,’ she says. ‘They were in a bus accident. Poor Ting Ting was at school that day. There was no one else to take care of her, so I took her in.’
I feel a sudden rush of sadness and pity for Ting Ting. It’s not just me she’s mad at. She must be mad at the whole world.
The next morning, Por Por takes me sightseeing. We catch a trolley bus to another part of the city where there’s a huge market. There are all kinds of stalls selling T-shirts and potted plants, scarves and dresses, musical instruments and books, and much much more. The local pop music is blaring and people are yelling out to each other.
I see a stall that sells sunglasses. I want to buy a pair for Papa.
‘Only fifty yuan,’ says the lady as I pick up some fake Oakleys with silver frames.
‘Twenty yuan,’ says Por Por, turning towards the lady.
‘No, no, no, forty-five,’ the lady replies.
‘Thirty,’ says Por Por as she looks at a pair with yellow frames and arms shaped like palm trees.
‘Aiya, that’s too cheap,’ the lady says. ‘Forty.’
‘Suan le, suan le, forget it.’ Por Por waves her hand at the lady and begins to walk away.
I run to catch up to her. I wanted to buy those sunglasses. Forty yuan is about seven Australian dollars. That’s so cheap. But just as I’m thinking this, I hear the lady calling us.
‘Hao le, hao le. Okay, then. You’ll make me poor but I’ll give them to you for thirty-five,’ she yells.
Por Por turns and heads back to the stall. ‘Thirty,’ she says, thrusting the money into the lady’s hand.
I try to hide my smile. I’ve realised it’s a game they’re playing. But you have to know the rules.
I buy matching T-shirts for me, Jess and Bronte to wear at band practice. And a mini kazoo at the musical instrument stall. I’ve always wanted one. It’s like a whistle, but instead of blowing into it you hum into the mouthpiece. The vibration makes your voice sound three times as loud. It will be fun to use in our band. I also buy a remote-control basset hound for Robbie that can stand on its back legs, roll over and even lift its leg to pee! It’s not the real dog that Robbie wants (Papa says dogs are too much trouble), but it might fill the gap for the time being.
Por Por takes me to the Shanghai Art Museum and Jade Buddha Temple, then for a bus ride around the old part of Shanghai. There are people everywhere and shops filled with food I’ve never seen before. We stop for lunch at a noodle stand. It’s a little cart on the street with a few stools and a fold-up table.
‘These are called knife-sliced noodles,’ says Por Por. ‘Watch how they’re made.’
The noodle man puts a lump of dough about the size of a medium pizza on a towel on top of his head. He looks as if he’s wearing a strange kind of hat. Then he takes a knife in each hand and starts shaving the sides of the dough – first one hand, then the other. He moves them so fast the blades are just a blur. Thin bits of dough drop into a pot of boiling water and are cooked in an instant. As they float up to the surface he scoops them out with a sieve, divides them between two bowls and pours a dark sauce over the top with a sprinkling of spring onions and coriander. We sit on little stools with our shopping bags on our laps and eat the most delicious noodles I’ve ever tasted.
It is mid afternoon by the time Por Por drops me home. She tells me to have a rest while she goes off to buy our train and bus tickets for the Isle of Clouds.
When I walk into the house, I see Ting Ting on the couch watching a Chinese ghost movie on TV. I say hello and head towards my room. I’m dying to look at the things I bought. I might even have a go of Robbie’s remote-control basset hound and try out my kazoo.
‘Wait,’ she says, switching off the sound.
I stop and turn around.
Ting Ting gets up and goes to the bookshelf. ‘Can you play weiqi?’ she asks.
‘A bit,’ I say. I used to play this game of surrounding chess with Mama.
‘I’ll give you a game then.’
‘I’m a bit busy,’ I say. The last thing I want to do is play a board game.
‘What? Afraid you’re going to lose?’ Ting Ting says with a smirk.
She takes the game down off the shelf and starts setting it up on the table. ‘Take a seat,’ she says.
I have no choice but to sit down opposite her.
There is no dice in the game of weiqi, just a board with ruled squares and two containers of stones – black and white. I realise that she’s given me the container full of black stones, and has kept the white ones for herself. In a way, this is an insult. Weiqi is a very polite game. Before you start, you decide who is the weaker player and they get the first move, which gives them an advantage. The weaker player always has the black stones.
I pick up a stone and run my thumb over it while I think. It feels cool and smooth between my fingers.
I place it on one corner of the board.
Ting Ting puts a white stone down near mine.
Slowly we build up our territory as we place more and more stones on the board. Once the stones are down, they can’t be moved.
We don’t talk. This game occupies all our thoughts.
I see a spot where Ting Ting’s white stones have almost surrounded my black ones. My territory is about to be taken. It’s my turn. I put a stone down. Ting Ting’s eyes narrow. I have made what’s called an eye. Now I’m beginning to surround her territory!
‘Weiqi is like life,’ Mama used to say. ‘You have to see the bigger picture. You might think you are losing. But by making one right move, you are suddenly winning.’
The air crowds in around us as we capture each other’s stones and take them off the board.
When all the territory on the board has been fought and won and there is no more land to contest, we count our captured stones. The person who has the most is the winner.
The game is close, very close.
‘I’ve got twenty-four. I think I’ve won,’ Ting Ting says, smiling smugly.
‘I have twenty-six,’ I say.
‘Twenty-six! Let me count them.’ She pushes my hand out of the way.
In weiqi it’s very rude to do this, but I let her count my stones just to make her happy.
‘Twenty … twenty-two … aagh!’ She swears when she sees that she really has lost. She throws up her hands, unbalancing the table. The board flips and lands on the ground, scattering black and white stones all over the rug. She stands up, glares at me, then storms out of the room.
I can’t believe it! Not again!
It takes me ages to find all the stones. Some have even skidded across the floor into the kitchen.
I should have been strong and told her I didn’t want to play. It’s obvious she’s jealous of me coming to stay with Por Por. She’s had her all to herself for the past three years. Then it occurs to me: maybe it’s because I’m Por Por’s real granddaughter that she hates me so much.
Finally I have the weiqi packed away and put back on the shelf. I’m so tired I just want to lie down on my bed, but as I head down the hall, I see a strange light coming from the room at the very end of the corridor. It seems to pulsate. I know it’s not Ting Ting’s room because that’s next to mine.
I walk towards it as if drawn there by some strange force. The light grows brighter and brighter, and soon I’m standing in the open doorway.
My mouth drops open in shock.
All over the walls and ceiling of the room is stuff so weird I can hardly believe it. There are swords made out of ancient Chinese coins, urns, and bottles and jars filled with powder and seeds. Plants hang upside down from the rafters. And painted all over the ceiling are drawings of heads and hands and strange symbols like the writing around the fish pond in the courtyard. And all the time I’m standing there, I’m trying to remember something. But what? It’s as if I had a dream once and bits of it are
floating around inside my head.
Then I see Ting Ting squatting on the floor in the corner, looking inside the drawer of a large cabinet. She spins around. When she sees me, her face blows up red and angry. ‘What are you doing here?’ she yells, getting up and rushing towards me. She pushes me hard in the chest and I fall out the doorway and onto the floor.
‘This room is private!’ she yells. ‘Do you understand? Only Por and I are allowed in here.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I only wanted to …’ I begin to say, but Ting Ting’s eyes are so dark and cold that I back away and run to my room.
I’m lying on my bed writing in my diary when I hear the doorbell ring. I wait a moment to see if Ting Ting will answer it, but there’s no sound from her room.
It’s dark as I cross the pebbled courtyard. When I open the red gate it’s not Por Por but a lady standing under the streetlight, holding the handlebars of her bicycle. She’s gasping for air, her eyes wide and scared.
‘Is Mrs Bao in?’ she pants. ‘I must see her. It’s urgent.’
I shake my head. ‘She’s out at the moment but she should be back soon.’
The lady groans. Then I hear footsteps behind me.
‘Mrs Wang,’ Ting Ting says, pushing me aside. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh, Ting Ting. Zao gao!’ Mrs Wang starts crying. ‘I need your por por right away. It’s back. That … wretched … thing … is … back. I don’t know what to do,’ she sobs.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Wang,’ says Ting Ting. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
The lady looks up through her tears and I see doubt cross her face. ‘Are you sure, Ting Ting? You think you can handle it … alone?’
I catch a glimpse of a smug smile on Ting Ting’s face. ‘Por has taught me everything I need to know for this one,’ she says. ‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’
I want to ask Mrs Wang what the wretched thing is, and what Ting Ting is supposed to be taking care of. But she’s mumbling to herself and pacing up and down like a madwoman.
A Ghost in my Suitcase Page 2
