by Zen Cho
The Perilous Life of Jade Yeo
by Zen Cho
http://zencho.org
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Zen Cho
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The Perilous Life of Jade Yeo
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The Perilous Life of Jade Yeo
Saturday, 7th August 1920
I had tea with the intolerable aunt today. Aunt Iris, the one who is so rich she has a new fur every year, and so mean she has installed a tip box by the door of every WC in her house, so you have to pay a charge every time you need to go. And so sinfully vainglorious I remember she came to visit us at home once and wore a wonderful glossy black mink fur. She sat on the sofa with a fixed grin on her face, sweating gallons in the heat. Ma had to send Koko out to get the doctor. It was just before New Year and Ma was terrified Aunt Iris would go into an apoplexy in our drawing room—which would have been such bad luck.
I had my angle of attack all planned out today, though. On Wednesday I'd found out how much a piece of chocolate cake cost at the restaurant, and I went in with the exact change in my purse. When the waiter asked me what I wanted, I said: "Chocolate cake, please", and I counted out my coins and paid him right then and there.
"I haven't got any more money than that," I explained.
Aunt Iris was furious: she looked like an aunt and she was wearing her furs, of course. Even the English must have thought it peculiar. But even so she didn't offer to pay. She ordered two different kinds of cake and a pot of their most expensive tea, just to show me. But I profited in the end because she couldn't finish even half of one of her slices of cake. I whipped out my notebook and tore out a page and wrapped the other slice in that.
"I'll save you the hassle of eating it, auntie," I said. "You must be so full now! I don't know how you stay so slim at your age."
I hadn't meant the reference to her age as a jibe. My mother is a very modern woman in most ways, but she would still be offended to be accounted any younger than she is. Her opinion is that she did not struggle her way to the august age of forty-three only to have the dignity accorded to her years snatched away from her.
But Aunt Iris has become quite Western from living here so long. She has a passionate hunger for youth. It is especially hard on her to be thwarted in it because the British can never tell an Oriental's age, so she's been accustomed to being told she looks ten years younger than she is.
"My dear Jade," she said in her plushest voice—her voice gets the more velvety the crosser she is—"I know you don't mean to be impolite. Not that I'm saying anything against your dear mother at all—your grandmother wouldn't have known to teach her these things, of course, considering her circumstances. But as an aunt I do feel I have the right to give you—oh, not a scolding, dearest, but advice, meant in the most affectionate way, you know—given for your sake."
The swipe at my grandmother's "circumstances" made me unwise. Aunt Iris is not really an aunt, but a cousin of Ma's. Her mother was rich and Ma's mother was poor. But my grandmother was as sharp as a tack even if she couldn't read and Aunt Iris's mother never had two thoughts to rub together, even though she had three servants just to look after her house.
"You should call me Geok Huay, Auntie, please," I said. "With family, there's no need for all this 'Jade'."
I spoke in an especially Chinese accent just to annoy her. Aunt Iris's face went prune-like.
"Oh, but Jade is such a pretty name," she said. "And 'Geok Huay', you know!" She looked as if my name were a toad that had dropped into her cup of tea. "'Geok Huay' in the most glamorous city in the world, in the twentieth century! It has rather an absurd sound to it, doesn't it?"
"No more absurd than Bee Hoon," I said. "I've always wished I could name a daughter of mine Bee Hoon."
A vein in Aunt Iris's temple twitched.
"It means 'beautiful cloud'," I said dreamily. "Why doesn't Uncle Gerald ever call you Bee Hoon, Auntie?"
Aunt Iris said hastily:
"Well, never mind—you'd best take the cake, my dear. Are you sure you don't want sandwiches as well?"
I was not at all sure I did not want sandwiches. I said I would order some just in case, and ordered a whole stack of them: ham and salmon and cheese and cucumber. Aunt Iris watched me deplete the stack in smiling discontent.
"Greedy little creature!" she tittered. "I would rap your knuckles for stuffing yourself, but you rather need feeding. You are a starveling little slip of a thing, aren't you? Rose and Clarissa, now, have lovely figures. They are just what real women should look like, don't you think?"
"You mean they have bosoms and I don't," I thought, but did not say. It didn't seem worth trying to enunciate through a mouthful of sandwich.
She had lots more little compliments like that.
"You would be so pretty if not for your eyes, dear."
And:
"It's such a pity you inherited your mother's nose. Don't take this the wrong way, dear, but your mother's face has always had such a squashed look. A good nose does so much for a woman's profile, doesn't it? Rose has an exquisite profile. I think she is prettier from the side than from the front. That's from Gerald. His mother was known for having a beautiful nose."
"What a strange country this is," I said, "where a woman can have a famous nose. Did they write about it in the newspaper?"
Well, I didn't say that last sentence. The first was quite enough. I am sufficiently Confucian not to want to alienate even the intolerable aunt. After all she is the only aunt I have here.
It did sting, though. I know—at least, my mind knows—that she thinks Rose and Clarissa are beautiful because they look English, and anything that is English is good to Aunt Iris. My heart is rather less sensible, and vulnerable to jabs about eyes. When I got home I crept down to the landlady's drawing room and stared at myself in her full-length mirror to remind myself of how pretty I am.
You can't ever tell people you think you are pretty. Even if you are pretty you have to flutter and be modest. Fortunately here nobody thinks I am pretty, so my thinking I am pretty is almost an act of defiance; it makes me feel quite noble. I have that slim bending willowy figure that looks so good in a robe, and smooth shining black hair like a lacquered helmet, and a narrow face with a pointy chin and black slashes of eyebrows.
It took me a long time to realise I was pretty, because Ma and Pa never thought so. Even the fair skin they didn't like—I'm not the right kind of fair. The Shanghainese girls on cigarette cards are like downy white peaches. I am like a dead person. This was disturbing on a child. Now I am an adult, I am like an interesting modern painting, but my parents are keen on moon-faces and perms.
They are the nicest parents, though. They always told me I was clever.
But the eyes are small, there's no getting away from that. Poor phoenix eyes! Here you might as well be sparrows.
What a disgusting entry! I must improve my character. The reason why I started this diary was to become a better writer, to develop a purer voice, and to practise cursive handwriting. And here I am raving about looking like a willow when I don't in the least, not being anywhere near as leafy—and all in handwriting that would be enough to make the sisters at my old school cry. (Or more likely, move those tough old biddies to make me cry.)
Enough! I must work on my review. I am reading a terrible sententious book called The Wedding of Herbert Mimnaugh. Firstly, what sort of a name is Herbert and why would a parent with any trace of natural affection wish to afflict their child with such a name? Herbert's parents
do not feature prominently in the book when this choice alone makes it obvious that they are the most interesting people in it.
Secondly and cetera, it is awful—hollow intellectual grandstanding that always stays five steps away from any true feeling even while it professes to plumb the depths of human experience. And no sense of humour. I cannot forgive a book that has no sense of humour.
I shall write a review tearing it apart and ask Ravi to look at it. He might give me enough for it that I could buy myself a new dress.
Monday, 16th August 1920
I did the stupidest thing today! My ears still burst into flames every time I think of it. Why is it that embarrassment afflicts me so much more than any other emotion? It must be an indication of a very unenlightened nature. I have forgotten all the passions of my youth, but I still remember the time at school when I absent-mindedly called Sister Mary "Mother" and the whole class laughed. Those were girls who had not absorbed the Christian lessons of loving kindness.
It was setting up to be such a good day as well. Ravi asked me to see him about my review of the terrible Mimnaugh book, so I went to Bloomsbury in trembling and fear.
I like Ravi's office: it's so small and box-like and like a room in a dollhouse. It's infernally hot in the summer and antarctic-cold in the winter. And Ravi in it, with his ink-stained hands and perpetually unfocused eyes, looks like the high-minded scholar he is. It is the twentieth-century equivalent of the poet's garret.
I was worried he would give me helpful critique, which I would have to listen to because Ravi's judgment is unerring. Instead, after shaking hands, he leant over the table and said to me,
"I'd like to publish your essay. We could do with another review in the next issue, and it's very sharp. But I want to be sure that you're prepared for what might follow."
Perhaps my parents were wrong in thinking I was clever. I hadn't the least idea what he was talking about.
"What might follow?" I said.
"Well," said Ravi, "there might be something of an uproar. You do realise Hardie is rather well thought of by the establishment? In fact, you might say he was the establishment."
I nodded, trying to look intelligent.
"It might pay off," said Ravi. "People will certainly read it, and that will attract interest in the journal. And it could be wonderful for you—you'll certainly get a reputation out of it. The question is whether that reputation would be one you'd want. Even the most venerable public intellectual is human, and the problem with offending a famous author is that his friends write for the TLS."
Ravi looked charming: he was so serious and concerned.
"Are you worried for my career?" I said. "D'you think the Bloomsbury harpies would leap on me and carry me off to have my insides for dinner?"
"Oh, I shouldn't think they'd do more than peck you around the head a trifle," said Ravi. "But you are young, you're only just starting out, and you aren't ...." He didn't need to say 'English'. We looked at each other and knew what the other was thinking.
"It's just a risk," said Ravi. "I wanted you to understand that so you could make the decision yourself."
"I am very grateful," I said. I touched his hand lying on the table. "It's good of you to think of me. But I haven't really got a reputation to destroy. With the money you'll give me for this and the money I'll get from my article on 'What The Well-Dressed Woman Is Wearing', I should be able to pay this month's rent and get a new dress. You don't know how I've been wanting a new dress. It's a terrible hunger."
Ravi grinned. "What is the well-dressed woman wearing?"
"Whatever she is wearing, she has got much more money than me to get it with," I said. "No, I'm happy to run the risk, if it is a risk. But I shouldn't think anyone of importance will read it."
Ravi's mouth quivered.
"Thank you," he said. "It's good to know you're excited about being published again in the journal."
"Oh, you know that's not what I meant!" I said. "It's an honour to be published in the Oriental Literary Review—you should have seen my face when I received the first issue with an article by me in it—oh, you are laughing. You are a beast! No, but seriously, Ravi, you must say when I offend you. I never stop to think about what I say before I say it. It's a very bad habit."
"I hope you never lose it," said Ravi. "It's one of my favourite things about you."
"Anyway, it isn't just the money," I said. "Whatsisname deserves a thorough vivisection. I've read some of his earlier works and those were quite good, but he's lost his grip in this Mimnaugh. It's sentimental posturing—inelegant language, ridiculous conclusions."
"That's candour," said Ravi approvingly. "Now that's the Jade Yeo I know."
I did that silly thing I do where I cover my mouth when I smile. I don't know where I learnt it from. It's a horrible affectation, as if I were some innocent little schoolgirl.
"I confess I don't know very much about the literary elite of London," I said, so Ravi wouldn't notice it. "Is Sebastian Hardie terrifically important?"
"He's well regarded," said Ravi. "Well off, well connected, but also a genuinely serious thinker. I've attended a couple of his lectures. He's an excellent speaker, and has something of a following. And he knows absolutely everybody who matters."
"Something of a sacred cow, then," I said without thinking.
"I wouldn't quite put it in those terms," said Ravi carefully.
Of course he is Hindu! He was very nice about it; the next thing he said was, "But yes, in effect."
But I felt dreadful about it. I haven't the faintest idea, come to think of it, whether the term comes from the golden calf in the Bible, or whether it is the British being rude about Hinduism. The problem is that it might very well be the latter, and either way it was an unfortunate thing to say.
The rest of the interview went smoothly enough, but I went home feeling foolish. Ravi is the last person in the world I should want to offend. He is one of the few kind people I know who are also interesting.
Well—I will write him a letter tomorrow, or the day after, and perhaps time will heal my wound. Really it is me and not him I am worrying about, because I do not like to think of him thinking ill of me.
I am sorry, Ravi!
Friday, 17th September 1920
I bought a cabbage at the market and had it in the broth I made from the bones of the roast chicken I lived on last week. Cabbage is a most unexciting vegetable, but I derive an unfailing pleasure from it. What I really want now, though, is winter melon soup, with pork bones. (Q: why is it called winter melon? It can't only be grown in winter, since we had them back home in the most tropical of climes. Is it a joke?)
It was a beautiful autumn day—the city glowed in the sunlight and the skies were that truly cloudless blue you never see back home. Sunshine is so precious here, though England is sunnier than I thought it would be, having been told so often about its greyness. I think it is because the greyness is so depressing that it makes the sunshine all the more spectacular.
But it is certainly autumn. I folded my batik and plaid sarongs and put them away for the next summer, when it shall be warm enough for me to wear them again when I'm pottering or writing or sleeping.
I wrote all the morning.—Oh, I almost forgot the most exciting thing that happened today! Along with the usual dreary bills (I hate bills, they should be outlawed), I received an invitation to a party from none other than Sebastian Hardie himself.
Sebastian Hardie! A party invitation would be excitement enough—I haven't been to a party since my big cousin had a wedding, and presumably she was made to invite me because I am a relation. But to think of getting one from London's leading literary luminary because one has been rude about his book. It is a bit comic.
He has written on the card that he has read my review of "what you were so kind as to call 'the terrible Mimnaugh'" in the Oriental Literary Review and "should very much like to meet me". How ominous. I wonder if he means to squash my presumption in person, or if it is
a matter of heaping coals on my head. (Q: why is it virtuous to heap coals on your enemy's head? The disadvantages: singed hair; waste of coal; difficulty of balancing more than three coals at the very most on a person's head. I must find out.)
I do not know if I shall go. A party! And I didn't even buy the dress I wanted after all. Ma turned up in my dreams and told me to save the surplus. Would my mother approve of my going to a party to meet a man I've been rude to?
I think I will go. It will be so interesting. And after all even if he does laugh at me in front of everybody, it does not matter: nobody knows me here.
Friday, 8th October 1920
There's too much to say about the party. I hardly even know where to start.
I started to regret accepting the invitation the minute a butler the approximate size of a mountain opened the door. He looked at me as if he were wondering why I hadn't gone to the traders' entrance. When I managed to persuade him that I had been invited and was led to the drawing room, it was like being plunged into a jungle full of hornbills and parrots. It was bright and noisy and close and warm, and so horribly crowded with dashing people all of whom knew each other, and none of whom I knew.
A nice Indian servant gave me a drink (I wish I could have spoken to him). I skulked in a corner clutching it and trying as hard as I could to look inscrutable and aloof, but feeling scrutable and loof as anything.
It was one of those London townhouses that have long narrow faces on the outside but turn out to have unexpected dimensions on the inside—they go up and out forever. The rooms were large, and the furnishings were beautiful, but almost pointedly worn, just in case you thought they had been bought new. I expect Hardie's great-grandfathers themselves obtained them in a looting on some colonial excursion. There were some very bad examples of Chinese porcelain on the mantelpiece.
