by null
For the next week, Sing and her father were inseparable. There was a pattern to their days together. Each morning at six, they ate a bowl of Aggie Gate’s “burgoo,” the nautical term for porridge with a sprinkle of salt, and swigged her hot, sweet tea. Afterward, Ben took his two black-briar walking sticks and, without help from anyone, found his way steadily through the fruit trees to the bench with Sing at his side. There they picked up where they had left off at seven o’clock the night before. At midday, Aggie brought them a basket of his favorite cheese and corned-beef sandwiches of a size that could choke a horse, and a flask of tea laced with rum, and there was fruit for the picking.
Drained of tears and grand emotions, almost beyond joy and laughter, they talked through each long and pleasant day. When she spoke of a doctor, his voice was harsh and deflnite. “You are all the doctoring I need.” He gave a croak of a laugh. “So just tell me all there is to know; Li-Xia is smiling on us today and there is nothing I need to hear but the sound of your voice.”
She told him of her life and what she knew of his: the childhood stories passed on by the Fish; Master To; the hut by the lake and the journey that had led her to this day. When she suggested that he should rest—he must be strong for the journey home to the Villa Formosa—he shook his head violently. He wasn’t going anywhere, he said in a voice that held something of the man he had once been.
“I don’t need to see the house I built for her. I know every brick and every stick of furniture in the place.”
Sing spoke with gentle understanding. “Your beautiful home awaits you, just as you left it. And Ah-Kin has tended the gardens as his own. He loves and misses you so … and there is Indie, and Angus, all your old friends …”
He sensed her dismay; his voice lowered to a grumble. “Then why would I offend their eyes with this?” He threw back the hood defiantly.
Sing took his mutilated face in both her hands, brushing away his tears with her thumbs, as she would a child’s. “It is your heart they remember, your courage and your love; they care nothing for the scars of battle.”
He shook his head vehemently. “It’s too late for revenge; why pour rum on wounds that won’t heal? Why give the bastards that deserted me a look at this?”
He shrugged the hood back in place. “There’s only one who’d be glad to see the way I look, and I took good care of Chiang-Wah before I left; even a Boxer can’t stand up to three copper-nosed slugs from a Colt. 45 at close range.”
He patted the bench and rubbed its familiar surface. “This bench will be my gravestone, and that’s good enough for me.”
Regretting his tone, he added more gently, “I need to feed the birds and listen to the water. This old river is where my true friends were put to rest for backing me—where we faced our fate side by side and took what came of it.” He patted the smooth worn seat of the bench again. “This jetty was Golden Sky’s last berth before she sailed to kingdom come. If I listen hard, I can still hear their voices.”
His words were defiant again. “Give me your hand and your word on it. I stay here, dead or alive. And you tell not a living soul that you have found me.”
Sing took his hand and kissed it. “You have my word, Father.”
He would not talk much about himself or his life with Li-Xia, but could not get enough of listening to her as he sat facing the river, drinking in her words like draughts of cool, sweet water after a long and terrible thirst. Occasionally, he asked a question that proved that, in spite of all he had endured, there was nothing wrong with her father’s mind. At first Sing would embellish the pleasant parts of her stories while minimizing the harsh, but he would stop her, urging her to give an honest account and leave nothing out to spare him. He detected every hesitation, preempted every omission, and chuckled deep in his chest at every triumph, great and small.
On occasion, his stiff, racked frame was seized by the unaccustomed mirth, bringing spasms of coughing and wheezing. When he found his breath, he turned his broken grin to her.
“Don’t fret; I can feel your worrying,” he gasped, still regaining his breath. “You wouldn’t stop an old man dying of laughter.”
Captain Benjamin Jean-Paul Devereaux died in his sleep on the seventh night of their reunion. Clutched in his broken hand, so tightly that nothing could take it away, was the orange-peel finger jade. Sing had sensed her father’s weakening as the long days had flowed away with the river … but she had also sensed contentment. The week spent under the apple trees, telling him the true story of her life, feeling his laughter, feeling his pride in her, were the richest hours of her life.
“He passed away as peacefully as his personal gods would allow,” observed Aggie Gates. “You brought him that peace, and as much happiness as he had left in him.”
Two days later, the old seat by the jetty was carefully taken from its moorings and set aside, while the strong hands of those few who knew him dug Ben Devereaux’s grave. He was laid to rest in the uniform he had worn only on the most special occasions. Sing herself had washed and dressed his body, draping over the casket the Devereaux house flag—the red and green dragons still bright on their flaming yellow background.
Sing watched without tears as a floating crane lowered a two-ton block of finest marble over the grave. The garden seat was carefully restored to its rightful place, with a new brass plate on its back:
Ben Devereaux rests here—disturb him if you dare.
December 1941
The marriage of Sing Devereaux to the recently promoted Major Toby Hyde-Wilkins took place on the ocean terrace of the Villa Formosa under a crisp autumn sky. The brief private ceremony was performed by Col o nel Pelham in accordance with some obscure rule in the military bible known as King’s Rules and Regulations, with a guard of honor provided by Toby’s brother officers forming a glittering arch of drawn sabers.
The bride was given away by Captain Rodriquez Da Silva, outrageously turned out in the antiquated regalia of a commandant of the Portuguese navy, his wild gray hair tamed and his beard hastily trimmed for the occasion. Angus Grant was best man, clad in the kilted uniform of his Black Watch Regiment of Reserves. Miss Winifred Bramble was matron of honor, with Lady Margaret Pelham in charge of catering and all formalities.
Sing wore a dress made of vibrant yellow silk found among the bolts stored in the Double Dragon godowns, a close replica to the one worn by Li-Xia in her parents’ portrait, with a sash fashioned from her mother’s happiness silk. Her bouquet was made from gardenias, ringed with Cornish violets against a spray of morning stars, proudly presented by Ah-Kin, who told her that these were her mother’s favorite flowers.
Toby and Justin Pelham were turned out in full dress uniform, scarlet tunics and white doeskin breeches, with cavalry boots burnished to a chestnut gloss. Nearly all the male guests were in uniform, which not only gave the occasion a dash of color and flair, but made it hard to forget that the Japanese were marching on Hong Kong. Even Lady Margaret and Miss Bramble wore the uniforms of senior Red Cross officials. Already, the golf course in Fanling had been turned into a field hospital, as had the Happy Valley Jockey Club, the Hong Kong Club, and other grand facilities of the British colonial establishment.
After a splendid dinner, Sing stood with Toby breathing the evening air heavy with night-blooming scents off the gardens. He enfolded her in his arms, his lips brushing her ear. “I beg you again,” he whispered. “There is a British destroyer anchored off Wan-Chai ready to evacuate British citizens. Please, my dearest, Justin has arranged a cabin. My parents are longing to meet you.”
“Is Lady Pelham leaving?” his new bride asked.
“No. She is the commanding officer’s wife.”
“And I am now the adjutant’s wife. I will be of use to her.” Sing turned to look at the beautiful villa, its windows warmly lit, the sound of quiet voices from the dining room. “This is where I belong. Ben Devereaux and Li-Xia would not have moved from the path of danger.” She laughed. “My father would turn in his g
rave if I were to leave the Villa Formosa out of fear of the future.” Turning back to draw him close, she rested her head on his shoulder. “We have two days before you return to the border. When you come back, I must be here waiting. My mother lies here, and the spirit of Ben Devereaux is everywhere. I have journeyed too far to find them. I will not have them taken from me now.”
At dawn the next morning, Ah-Kin stepped from his house and looked up at the dawn sky, reflecting the silvery pinks and purples of a freshly opened pearl shell. Breathing deeply the perfumed air of his beloved Ti-Yuan gardens, he went to his toolshed and filled a small basket from the sack of fishmeal. His grass sandals made no sound as he crossed the first bridge. With the flood of pure light, lotus flowers were opening crowns of palest pink, and dew lay upon their leaves in perfect beads of crystal.
A movement caught his eye, and he saw the mistress standing in the Pavilion of Joyful Moments, looking out to sea. She began to move, her arms rising in a graceful arc, like the unfolding of wings prepared for flight. With the slenderness of grass blown by a gentle breeze, she stepped as lightly as a finch in a pear tree.
Heavenly chi flooded Sing’s body as sunrise exploded upon the China Sea. Her hair flowed about her, red brown as the sunlit coat of a moon bear on the slopes. She felt the presence of Li-Xia and two snow-white chow pups with tongues like crushed blueberries asleep on the cushions; of the Fish, pouring ginger tea. Across the path of the rising sun, she saw the topmasts of a fast-raked schooner under billowing sails, its dragon banners streaming in a flawless golden sky.
A Reading Group Gold Selection
THE CONCUBINE’S
DAUGHTER
by Pai Kit Fai
About the Author
• A Conversation with Pai Kit Fai
Behind the Novel
• Concubines and Bondservants: A Historical Perspective
Keep on Reading
• Recommended Reading
• Reading Group Questions
For more reading group suggestions
visit [http://www.readinggroupgold.com] www.readinggroupgold.com
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN
About the Author
A Conversation with Pai Kit Fai
Can you tell us a bit about how you decided to lead a literary life?
The short answer is that I was never much good at anything else. When the teacher spoke of mathematics I thought of poetry. Finding the right words to describe a walk by the river, or adventures to be found in an apple orchard, was far more enchanting to me than adding and subtracting truckloads of figures I felt I might never use. My mind just didn’t belong behind a desk. It still doesn’t.
I suppose I began writing then, at the age of seven or eight, looking out of the schoolroom window, listening for a cuckoo, transported by the smell of new-mown hay and the sun-warmed backs of Shire horses. For a child, even in the war-torn streets of London, or the bucolic joys of the rural counties, the world of letters and its search for words and sentences was considered a foolish waste of time. That didn’t stop me.
“The clamor of Oriental cities … claimed me and my imagination completely.”
What inspired you to write The Concubine’s Daughter?
I traveled widely in the Far East in my early life. Every sight and sound, no matter how great or small, was a new experience for me, to be entered bravely and explored in full. The clamor of Oriental cities, never more than moments away from the most peaceful and enchantingly beautiful countryside, claimed me and my imagination completely.
Villages, too small to notice—where long lives were lived contentedly in the simplicity of faith under the kindly eye of some smiling god—offered an instant welcome and countless stories; such stories mingled with the unforgettable aromas of spices and herbs, produce grown a step from the door—stirred, mixed, tossed in sizzling woks over open flame, to some secret family recipe. Always by women, young or old, strong, capable women, stooped over endless terraces of rice, urging stubborn buffalo behind a wooden plow, or washing clothes at the village well. They always seemed so complete to me … until I learned how quickly and unjustly the gods could lose their smile.
Your protagonists, Li-Xia and Siu-Sing, are headstrong women who face seemingly insurmountable odds in a patriarchal society. You’ve mentioned your interest in women’s rights in China. Can you tell us what spurred your interest, and how your story was imbued by your understanding of the issues?
I think my fascination with the courage and amazing strengths of heart and mind so often found in women the world over began during my early travels.
In male-dominated societies of the early twentieth century, underprivileged girls were arrogantly and often savagely exploited with no concept of dignity, spiritual freedom, or physical comfort. Nowhere was this more harshly followed than in China, where a girl child was considered of no more value than an unwanted kitten, to be drowned at birth in the paddy field and left for the ducks to squabble over.
Those unwanted daughters allowed to live were put to work as household servants, although slaves would be a better term, until old enough (usually six to eight years old) to sell as “cherry girls”—virgins whose innocence and chastity were bartered like a basket of fish or a fattened piglet—for about the same price and with the same degree of ceremony.
The sung-tip, or contract, bonded them for life to the buyer without payment or rights of any kind. The cunning and the ruthless among them, through the use of sex and manipulation, sometimes fought their way to a perilous position of power and success; but the vast majority were soon seen as disposable by the rich old men or whoremongers who owned them. Homeless and nameless, sold from one hideous situation to another, the future they faced was bleak beyond description.
Those few who forged their identity in such a cruel and unrelenting society through their own wits, decisions, and choices were sometimes clever enough to change their cruel destiny against the most formidable odds and by the most remarkable of adventures—to find a life and love of their own that led to great success. Theirs are the tales worth telling.
“The practice of any discipline that seeks to harmonize the body, mind, and spirit is a path worth following.”
You are a master of the Chinese martial arts. Can you tell us a little bit about how you came to study martial arts? How has its practice enriched your life? How did you draw upon your knowledge of this ancient Chinese practice when writing The Concubine’s Daughter?
Well, first, the title of master is often loosely used. It carries very different meanings in the many competitive schools, or forms, of martial arts throughout Asia and now the Western world. Today it is possible for a female to attain the degree of master, while for many centuries a woman adept was usually one of royal blood or noble birth, taught from infancy to evade the ever-present threat of kidnap and rape. That is, until a Buddhist nun created a form that was designed for the female disciple; it was called White Crane. So, there are many levels of master, or si-fu.
In China, especially the China of old, such a title was held in the highest possible esteem, earned by a lifetime of devotion in search of perfection, widely known as kung fu. This was often the rarified domain of novice monks cut off from temptations of the world by a life in mountain monasteries. An abbot or grand master may, if he deems it earned and well deserved, bestow the credit of si-fu upon one who teaches what he or she has learned.
While studying, in 1977, in the Philippines, I was faced with advanced cancer of the throat. As an alternative to radical surgery, my own Chinese master taught me a sequence of breathing exercises said to be eight hundred years old. When after five years of daily practice I was found to be free of the dreaded disease, he suggested that I teach the techniques to others. If the success of my books on the subject has helped share the benefits of ancient Chinese health systems with readers in the West, then I accept the compliment of si-fu within that context.
I have found that the study and practice of any discipline
that seeks to harmonize the body, mind, and spirit is a path worth following—one that can lead to a world of endless fascination and undreamed-of achievement, in which anyone, with time and patience, can conquer the extraordinary.
You are a noted scholar of holistic medicine. Can you tell us a little bit about how you began studying holistic medicine? How did your understanding of the subject work its way into The Concubine’s Daughter?
Again, the same could be said for the generous title of scholar: In the days of Li-Xia and her daughter, Siu-Sing, a scholar was a man or boy who could read and write with his fingers and had a mind fast and nimble as an abacus … or one who had mastered the art of the calligrapher’s brush. Artists and poets were the ultimate scholars—but all were men. Education was strictly the domain of the male, not to be wasted in the worthless hands of the female.
If my books on this subject have provided the slightest understanding of traditional Chinese medicine (TCM)—if it is “scholarly” to research the subject of your story thoroughly, and to enjoy every moment of it—then I accept the title humbly.
“China is and always will be an unfinished adventure.”
What other research did you do when writing the story? How did you decide what to include and what to leave out? Did you scrupulously adhere to historical fact? To what extent did you take artistic liberty?
Most of my research was done over some thirty years of living and working in the Far East, much of it in Hong Kong and Macao. It is not difficult to absorb the way of life in such wild and wicked cities, or the unchanged territory that still surrounds them.
So, researching a story as like The Concubine’s Daughter becomes part of one’s life. There is no great need for historical facts; China is and always will be an unfinished adventure, its fabulous and often frightening past as alive today as it has ever been.
