Picture Bride

by C. Fong Hsiung

  Picture Bride

  a novel

  C Fong Hsiung

  © 2014 C Fong Hsiung

  Except for purposes of review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form

  without prior permission of the publisher.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge support from the Government of Ontario through

  the Ontario Arts Council.

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through

  the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

  Cover design by Christa Seeley

  Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada.

  ISBN 978-1-927494-52-3 (ebook)

  TSAR Publications

  P. O. Box 6996, Station A

  Toronto, Ontario M5W 1X7

  Canada

  www.tsarbooks.com

  For inspiring and motivating me, Su Mei and Kwai,

  and for my number one fan, Barb

  Contents

  · 1 ·

  · 2 ·

  · 3 ·

  · 4 ·

  · 5 ·

  · 6 ·

  · 7 ·

  · 8 ·

  · 9 ·

  · 10 ·

  · 11 ·

  · 12 ·

  · 13 ·

  · 14 ·

  · 15 ·

  · 16 ·

  · 17 ·

  · 18 ·

  · 19 ·

  · 20 ·

  · 21 ·

  · 22 ·

  · 23 ·

  ·1·

  I wish Aunt Sue-Lin would stop coming to visit. From my window I watch her waddle along the unpaved road towards our tannery. She always has a mission. Soon after, my ah-poh bustles into the room.

  “Jie-Lan, come take a look at this picture.” Ah-Poh’s grin lights her eyes behind black-framed dirt-spattered lenses.

  My Class Eleven history book mocks me from the desk. Oliver Cromwell’s exploits explode in my head, and grandmother’s intrusion worsens my headache. Every conversation with her about a marriage proposal is a battle of words.

  “So, what do you think of Peter Chou? He’s good looking, no?” She thrusts a colored Kodak print, no bigger than her palm, in front of my face. Her rounded belly, sheathed in dark, tiny floral-print polyester, pushes against my arm. She is wearing a pajama top with a Mandarin collar held together by a frog-like clasp matching the black piping. Her sleeveless navy-blue cardigan, unbuttoned, hangs over her loose trousers.

  I have no choice but to look, and see a half-portrait of a man, probably in his midtwenties, with thick eyebrows, almost meeting at the centre, over brooding brown eyes. He reminds me of my strict history teacher, who is of Nepalese origin.

  “I don’t want to get married.”

  “Aiya, why do you always say that? You will grow old and no one will want to marry you.” Ah-Poh’s mournful voice drops a pitch. She lifts her glasses and wipes her eyes.

  “I’m only eighteen. Just because you were married when you were sixteen doesn’t mean I have to do the same.”

  “You silly girl, this has nothing to do with me. When someone so eligible asks for you, how can you say no, huh?”

  I shove the picture to her. “I don’t know who this Peter person is. How can I get married to a stranger?”

  “That’s okay. Look at your friend, Mandy. She hasn’t met her fiancé and yet she doesn’t have a problem with it.”

  That is true. Mandy Lam will be off to Toronto next month to marry Steven Chiu. She told me how happy she is at landing an eligible bachelor from Canada, but I don’t want to be like her, marrying a complete stranger. “Okay, you marry him.”

  “Aiya, don’t joke about this. You must say yes to Peter. He comes from a rich family. They live next door to the Lams’ tannery. Aunt Sue-Lin says he’s doing very well in Toronto making lots of money.”

  Ah-Poh believes in Aunt Sue-Lin’s unmatched skill as a matchmaker. Her credentials include at least twenty arranged marriages in our Hakka Chinese community. Apparently all her matches are still in the throes of wedded bliss. Lately she has become more ambitious. She now focuses on pairing local unmarried girls with Tangra men settled in foreign lands. And of course, for every successful union, she earns a couple of hung pao or lucky money in red envelopes, and her reputation grows.

  “Do you think that money makes him a good husband?”

  “Of course not, but it’s good, no? He will make you very happy.”

  Wealth and happiness go hand in hand in Ah-Poh’s mind.

  “How do you know what kind of a person he is?”

  “Aunt Sue-Lin knows these things. She’s checked out his family. Look at all those couples she’s brought together.”

  I am fed up of Aunt Sue-Lin who isn’t even my real aunt. She had adopted Papa and Mama as her brother and sister-in-law because they had helped her financially many years ago after her husband died.

  “I don’t want to talk about this. I have a lot of homework to do.” My final exams are only a few weeks away, in December.

  “Make your papa happy . . . he has suffered so much already.” Ah-Poh adopts her most grievous tone. She often uses Papa’s detention in Rajasthan as a bargaining chip to get her way with my brothers and me. During the Chinese-Indian war of 1962 Papa was arrested on unfounded charges of espionage. Born in Calcutta, he doesn’t know anyone in China, although he was openly pro-Communist during the brief war.

  “I can’t do anything about what happened to Papa.”

  “Ah, but you can be a good daughter. You are his only daughter now . . . you know how sad he is, even now, about Lee-Lan’s death.”

  Ah-Poh can be cruel sometimes. “You mean how he still blames me for it?”

  “Stop it. Your papa doesn’t blame you for anything. Your sister should never have been friends with that bad Indian boy.”

  “Maybe if I’d prevented them from seeing each other, he wouldn’t have murdered Lee-Lan.”

  How many times have I replayed the events leading up to my sister’s death six months ago, always asking the same question—could I have done something? Papa seems to think so. I see the blame in his eyes and in his disapproving silence. He has forbidden us to speak her name.

  “And how do you think you could have stopped him, huh?”

  I expel a long breath. “So what does Papa say about this marriage proposal?”

  “He only wants what’s best for you. He’s certain that Peter is a good match.”

  “And Mama?”

  “If your papa likes Peter, then of course your mama does too.”

  My frustration mounts. “Why do you all think it’s okay for me to marry someone without meeting him first?”

  “Aiya, you’ve got too many Western ideas in your head. I went to live in your ah-kung’s house as his wife when I was just a little girl. Now look at us—we are happy, no? The good Buddha blessed us with three children. We are very lucky. You will be too if you marry Peter.”

  I cannot help smiling at the odd couple that Ah-Kung and Ah-Poh make—he, a quiet man in his early seventies, she, outspoken and in her late sixties. He defers to her in all personal and family matters, while she stays out of his business affairs. Nowadays, he prefers to spend most of his time at the local tea houses where he gossips with his cronies.

  “Okay, Ah-Poh, I’ll think about this.”

  The ye
ar is 1975 and I, Jie-Lan Jillian Wu, live in Tangra, home to a Hakka Chinese leather-tanning community in Calcutta’s eastern suburb. More than a hundred tanneries pack the low-lying land reclaimed from marshes. We live where we work—often with no clear boundaries between our dwellings and the space used for curing cowhide. My papa, Chin-Shen Wu, a respected man of means whose leather business soared after he was released from detention, likes to spend what he makes. When he added an apartment—four bedrooms, a large living and dining room, a kitchen, and two bathrooms—on the second floor of the tannery, the neighbours compared it to the luxurious flats of central Calcutta.

  Across the dirt road at the front entrance of our tannery, is a large pond the size of a football field. Little fish swim feebly in the murky water. A platform made up of wood and supported on bamboo poles, extends across the pond. From morning till midafternoon, you will see row after row of wet, rawhide nailed to the wood drying in the sun. In the early evening hours, teenage boys and girls steal furtive glances at each other as they pretend to stroll or wrap up the day’s work on these wooden structures, while little children run about playing catch. After dinner, they all group around my ah-kung to hear a story or two.

  On the other side, a narrow body of water separates the tanneries from wide open farmlands that stretch as far as the eye can see. The city’s landfill also occupies a sizable section of these lands. They are also the launching ground for burglars and other characters who swim the short distance to harass the Hakka residents.

  This evening my entire family gathers as usual at our round, red Formica-topped dining table. Ah-Poh, Ah-Kung, Papa, Mama, Hau-Shan Shane, Hau-Chong Robert—Mama ran out of an Anglo-sounding name for her youngest—and finally, me. Lee-Lan, murdered this past May, reverted to her Chinese name when she discovered that Lillian was the name of a girl she disliked in Class Six.

  Snatches of a popular Hindi song wafts in through the open windows. The sounds of Diwali—firecrackers and loud music—echo everywhere during this festival of lights. Inside our tannery, the silent machines give us a pleasant break from the noisy thrum and the nonstop activities of our mostly Hindu workforce. Even our ayah has the day off.

  Ah-Kung and Papa sit upright beside each other on their four-legged stools, their likeness unmistakable except for Ah-Kung’s snow-white crown and happy demeanor. Where Ah-Kung’s wide, full-lipped mouth breaks into a quick smile that softens his hollow-cheeked face, the same mouth on Papa reveals only a hint of a curve when he closes a business deal. When Ah-Kung sets eyes on us children, he will press a coin or two in our hands. The same deep brown eyes on Papa reduce us to blubber like children caught with their hands in the wrong pockets.

  Papa wasn’t always this grim. I remember his full-bellied laugh when Lee-Lan said something funny. Vivacious and pretty, she always had that effect on him.

  I set my chopsticks down as soon as I see that Papa has finished his rice. He passes his bowl to me for a refill. As I scoop some for him, Ah-Poh says, “Poor Mrs Wong denies very hard that her daughter is already three months pregnant and marrying the Indian father of the child because she has to.”

  I hand Papa’s bowl to him. His forehead creases in a frown. “My children will never marry an Indian.”

  Shane, the older of my younger brothers, has a spark in his eyes. At fifteen he already fancies himself a worldly and knowledgeable young man. “What choice does she have? No Hakka man wants to be her husband now.”

  “It doesn’t matter. None of you will ever embarrass us by marrying someone who’s not Chinese.”

  Shane asks, “What if one of us did marry an Indian or any other race?”

  “I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. I will disown you and you will never set foot in my house again.”

  Shane brushes back the strands of hair from his brow as he tosses his head back and opens his mouth to speak. I flash him a warning look, and he lowers his gaze and scoops up a mouthful of rice with his chopsticks.

  “We don’t have to worry about that, do we?” Mama says in a soothing voice, deftly turning the conversation to me. “Our Jie-Lan has a marriage proposal from Chou Yin-Ching’s son. He’s been living in Toronto for over three years.”

  “I haven’t agreed yet.”

  “Not to worry. You will. He’s the perfect husband for any girl.” Mama nods and casts me a knowing look.

  Papa carefully lays his chopsticks beside the heap of chicken bones in front of his bowl. He directs a stern gaze at me. “Don’t wait too long or someone else will snap him up.”

  I want to scream at him for making me feel powerless to control my own destiny, but I say nothing. No point arguing with Papa—he always wins.

  After dinner, I approach a group of children and teenagers seated in a circle around Ah-Kung on the wooden platform in front of the tannery. His hands jab and block as he throws himself into a tale of warlords and kings in ancient China. He says, “Kwan Kung slept with his eyes open so he could see his enemies all the time.”

  I’ve heard this story before. I find a small unoccupied space on the leather mat at the edge of the rapt group. As I tuck my skirt around my legs and get comfortable, I glance up and see Charles Chang watching me with smoldering eyes. He is sitting on the periphery of the circle across from me, one cheek resting on his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He works for the Wong family next door, and I often see him outside laying leather on the boards to dry or giving instructions to the Indian workers. I look away, blushing.

  I reach inside the hidden pocket in my skirt, feel the letter Charles sent me a few hours earlier through his ten-year-old sister. He wrote—an extremely bold move—to ask if I would like to go out with him secretly for a movie. We had danced together a few times when I attended a New Year’s Eve party with Lee-Lan. I had begged and wheedled Mama to let us go, and in the end she gave in—not to me, but to Lee-Lan’s pouting and tears.

  I don’t know how I feel about Charles. His letter, written in English and riddled with errors, bothers me. Yet his infatuation makes me giddy. He is fair-skinned and good-looking. Mama would be appalled if I wrote back to him. What if I agree to meet him? I dare not—someone always finds out. Then Mama and Papa will find out.

  From the corner of my eye I catch Charles casting another glance in my direction. Ah-Kung’s voice rises higher as his story reaches the climax. I lift my gaze toward Charles. Our eyes lock for a moment. My breath catches. Quickly I turn away—better not to fan this tiny spark before it gets out of control. My parents would never consent to my dating someone they consider beneath our status—Charles’s parents own a small restaurant that caters to the Hakka community, and he works for the Wongs to supplement the family income. Although I am curious and find the idea of a date with Charles exciting, my head warns me not to give in to these temptations.

  For a moment I wish I were more like Lee-Lan, free-spirited and defiant. She would have dated a boy secretly if she were interested in him. Yet in the end, wasn’t that what led to her tragedy? If only I’d stopped her instead of encouraging her. As her older sister, I’d listened to her rave about her boyfriend, Rajesh Mehta, and that in itself was my tacit support. My heart aches just thinking about this. I miss my sister.

  With a sigh I push myself up from the mat. I sense a pair of eyes on my back as I stroll, with forced nonchalance, toward the tannery. I resist the urge to turn around and look at Charles. I will finish reviewing Cromwell’s battles instead of filling my head with ancient Chinese warriors and creating a new war in my family by tangling with a relationship destined to fail.

  The next morning, the day after Aunt Sue-Lin’s visit, Mama stands at my door—long multicoloured cotton sleeves rolled up—a palm around the doorknob. She says she needs help in the kitchen. The almost imperceptible arching of her feathered eyebrows expresses more than she lets on.

  Inside the kitchen, Mama sits on a low wo
oden stool close to the floor. She bends her head while her hands twist and turn as she soaks a chicken—its feathers intact—in hot water inside an aluminum basin. I notice a few strands of gray on Mama’s short wavy hair as I crouch down across from her. Together our hands tug at the wet plumes. The odour of raw chicken turns my stomach.

  “Aunt Sue-Lin is waiting for your answer,” Mama says without looking up.

  “Can’t I finish my exams before we discuss this?”

  “You can say yes now and get engaged after your exams. Immigration papers take a long time to process.”

  “But I don’t want to marry someone I haven’t met.”

  “Your papa is going to be upset to hear you talk like this. He’s got his heart set on your marrying this Peter in Canada.”

  “Then why are you asking me? He always gets what he wants.”

  Since Lee-Lan’s death, I have not been able to squeeze a smile out of him. I wish he would talk to me like he used to before that dreadful day. Although not a person prone to idle chatter with his children, he always praised me when I brought home my report cards. Now he denies me even those little pleasures.

  She glances up at me with a disturbed look. “You know that we’re doing what we think is best for you. You’re still too young to know.”

  Too young to choose my own husband, but old enough to marry.

  ·2·

  A few weeks after my final exams, in early January Papa places an announcement in the Chinese newspaper about my engagement to Peter Chou. Mama and Ah-Poh order several rolls of the Hakka cakes, that are specialty at engagements and weddings. Mr and Mrs Chou, Peter’s parents, arrive with Aunt Sue-Lin and some Chou relatives soon after breakfast. Mrs Chou, smiling, holds two boxes of Flury’s cakes tied together with a red ribbon and topped with a red paper cut-out of the character, She, meaning happiness. The two new qin ga, in-laws, will exchange cakes at the engagement ceremony.