Little Reunions

by Eileen Chang

  Finally someone came upstairs.

  The concubine stood at the head of the stairs and called out her greeting: “Esteemed Brother-in-law.”

  As usual Ned was pacing in circles around the room that was fortunately extremely large. Julie imagined he would appear to be embarrassed to visit the concubine’s quarters, but he actually was delighted by the opportunity to tour her love nest.

  “Auntie Lee! Serve tea,” she ordered the maidservant.

  “No need. I’m about to leave. Where’s Julie?” He continued to pace the room, smiling while calling “Come out! Come out!” with a hint of impatience.

  In the end the concubine probably signaled to Ned with her lips. He went behind the screen and pulled Julie out. She giggled but did not resist.

  They took a rickshaw home and Julie sat on Ned’s lap. She was eight.

  “Uncle’s concubine is really unattractive—but his wife is so beautiful,” said Julie.

  Ned laughed. “Uncle’s wife is stupid.”

  Julie was surprised an adult would say that to a child.

  “Your maternal uncle is not stupid, he’s just lazy.”

  From that moment on Julie believed what her father said because he did not have ulterior motives, unlike most adults who were always lecturing children and feared they would carelessly divulge secrets.

  Ned read newspapers fastidiously and discussed topics of the day whenever he had visitors. Julie did not understand the conversations but did catch the names of the warlords Yen and Feng. Visitors rarely interrupted Ned, only putting up with his current affairs analyses to savor his opium.

  Her father once let Julie give him a manicure. “Not bad. A little rounder would be better.”

  Julie was quite affected by the discovery that his long thin fingers were identical to her own.

  Ned occasionally summoned Auntie Han to do his pedicure. Afterward, she would stand there chatting for a while, mostly about clan dictums of yore.

  “In the time of Old Matriarch,” she would usually begin.

  Sometimes Ned would send Auntie Han down to the kitchen to make some dish the cook did not know how to make, like Hofei deep-fried glutinous rice and pork balls, or flaky pastry with ham-and-radish filling. At the Lunar New Year festival, she would always steam date cakes with crushed walnut filling—the cakes, made of a mixture of glutinous rice flour and date paste, were decorated with an auspicious pattern of clouds and bats and then placed on bamboo leaves.

  “Auntie Han was a child bride adopted into the family. She was so timid that the slightest incident would scare her to death,” Ned told Julie. Judy had said the same thing. Since childhood they had both loved to make light of Auntie Han being an adopted child bride.

  Auntie Han never talked about being a child bride, or her mother-in-law, or her husband. She always spoke of a lone widow, a son, and a daughter, a sorry tale reminiscent of the impoverished widows in the Old Testament following behind the harvesters to scoop up the grains of wheat that had fallen on the ground.

  “Nothing to eat at home, jeang gao? What to do? I borrow half a bushel of beans from my brother-in-law. Pleaded so hard the tears streamed down my face.”

  When Julie and Julian were small, Auntie Han would invariably say at mealtimes: “Don’t waste your food, those siatzu” (she always said siatzu, the word for “children” in her Anhwei accent) “in the countryside don’t have enough to eat.” Otherwise it was: “Them siatzu have it rough! They bleated so hard I’d have to ladle out some water and steam up an egg just to calm ’em down.”

  Auntie Han often told rustic folktales: In the countryside, an autumn monster with white hair and red eyes lived in a tree and ate siatzu. Whenever she talked about the autumn monster, Auntie Han cackled like a crone, yet betrayed embarrassment because her own hair was white. Sometimes she’d say, “I’m so old, I’ve turned into an autumn monster,” as if all autumn monsters once were old ladies.

  Julie later read about the ancient Japanese and Eskimo custom of abandoning their old. I wonder whether autumn monsters are old abandoned women. Men, of course, die earlier than women. Perhaps some really did shelter in trees, becoming inhuman monsters that ate children, as they’re easier to catch than wild game.

  In her thirties, Auntie Han became a helper, leaving her children behind with her mother. “It was heartbreaking,” she’d say, her eyes reddening.

  When the male servant Teng Sheng returned from his rent-collecting trips to the countryside, Auntie Han would stand at the gate of the reception room and ask, “Mister Teng, what’s going on in the countryside now?”

  Teng Sheng and Auntie Han were from the same province and both had served under the late matriarch in the Sheng family. The leased land was also located in their hometown.

  “Bandits, lots of bandits in the countryside these days.”

  “Oh, people are so wicked nowadays,” she’d respond, perplexed.

  Whenever her son, daughter, and granddaughter took turns coming to the city to find work, they all stayed at the Sheng residence for a while before returning. For a time, her son, Golden Boy, was employed through a recommendation of the Shengs. Back then he was a handsome man in his twenties. He had a glib tongue and played a tricky hand, but everything went wrong, and in the end Auntie Han came to the rescue. From that point on he was unable to get work—one false step brings everlasting grief—but he never gave up. He became terribly emaciated and looked as if the lower half of his face had eroded away. Each time he visited he’d stand with his hands at his side in front of Ned’s opium bed listening to Ned explain that no one was doing well these days because of the depression.

  “I beseech Second Master to lend a hand.”

  Julie saw him in the corridor outside the kitchen seated next to Auntie Han, separated by a small table, apparently in discussion, a worn-out middle-aged man pouting like a child.

  Auntie Lee from the same district was washing dishes in the kitchen. “Golden Boy knows how to do the rattle-stick dance,” she said to Julie. “Tell him to dance for you.”

  “Golden Boy did the rattle-stick dance for you once when you were small,” said Auntie Han. “Do you remember?”

  Golden Boy said nothing and did not look up to see who was there. There wasn’t the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Julie thought he was jealous of her. She vaguely remembered his movements when performing the rattle-stick dance, vaulting over a bamboo cane instead of a spear sickle. A rattle stick probably represented a sickle with a long handle, Julie thought.

  Golden Boy’s elder sister had a long face and looked rather dull. Both brother and sister were emaciated and looked like they were made of desiccated meat, a kind of human jerky. Their suntanned skin was a shiny dark red. Where on earth did this red tribe come from?

  Auntie Han called her daughter “Miss.” The only place where Julie had seen that appellation so applied was in the risqué novel The Plum in the Golden Vase. She also called Julie “Miss,” and to distinguish the two, her daughter became “our family’s Miss.” But occasionally, when Julie embraced Auntie Han warmly, she would say, “Indeed, she is my family’s Miss.”

  Once, Auntie Han was about to visit the countryside. “I want to go too,” Julie demanded. Julie was quite small at the time and did not persist, but she could see that her request unsettled Auntie Han, who feared she would not be able to be a generous host if Julie really joined her.

  Auntie Han returned after two months, sunburnt all red and shiny. She brought back with her the local delicacies of purple-cloud shortbread and pumpkin cakes coated with sesame seeds for Julie to taste.

  One day an honored guest visited. The servants whispered to each other in hushed tones: “His Excellency has arrived.” Amongst all the relatives, only the Chu branch had one elder uncle who was widely referred to as His Excellency. Once bequeathed a hereditary rank by the former great Ch’ing dynasty, under which he had been an official, he had come out of retirement to take up an important post. Aunt Chu was his wife, but
she brought up Brother Hsü in a different household, even though he was not her son. Julie had never met this uncle.

  From the balcony that day Julie could hear the loud bombastic discourse coming from her father’s sitting room, and surprisingly, they all spoke in the dialect of the Anhwei Province capital, Hofei. It was surprising because every member of the Chu clan, young or old, male or female, spoke perfect Pekinese. She caught a glimpse of His Excellency through the glass doors as he strolled slowly out onto the balcony. He was tall and thin, and was dressed in a much-worn black silk jacket-and-trousers set favored by laborers, rather than a formal gown. A grimy, gray sash was visible underneath his jacket. Perhaps his now pallid complexion was once handsome. His hair, parted in the middle, was fashionable for a time in the early Republican era and was held in place with so much grease that it resembled two large lumps of black medicinal paste stuck to his temples.

  Julie later heard that His Excellency was in trouble. By the time she returned from school, the matter had slipped out of the headlines and there were just occasional follow-up stories that did not provide much detail: embezzlement of funds—the figure so astronomically enormous it made her dizzy, and therefore impossible for her to remember—followed by investigation, dismissal, prosecution.

  Aunt Chu lived in a tiny Spanish-style house in an alleyway development. The upstairs was furnished with a suite of the white lacquered furniture that was fashionable in the early Republican era. She had many cats.

  Brother Hsü, a university graduate who worked in a bank, lived in the small back room facing the landing. Julie always played with the cats whenever she visited. She liked it there because it did not seem like a strict household but rather like two children living in a play house, a little white house in a fairy tale with a big white cat. Julie was not surprised when her third aunt moved in and rented the third floor from them. Judy blocked off the top of the staircase with a screen door, which she latched to deny entry to the cats. Her floor felt like an apartment in itself, with a bathroom, a refrigerator, and a telephone. Judy often sat by the telephone and spent hours talking because, like Ned, she traded commodities and stocks.

  Whenever Julie visited, Judy would give her a large pile of old English-language newspapers and let her sit on the carpet to cut out photos of movie stars.

  “I am helping your uncle Chu with his court case,” Judy said in a hushed voice.

  Julie smiled. “Oh, really,” she responded. If you want to help someone, why don’t you help Auntie Han’s family. That wouldn’t take anywhere near as much money.

  “Your grandmother adored that nephew, said he was really talented,” Judy retorted defensively. “She said he was the only member of the family who resembled his grandfather.”

  Julie had overheard Judy and Ned talking about His Excellency. They also said he had “inherited fine traits from his ancestors.” His grandfather had a son but also adopted a nephew, so he too adopted a nephew nicknamed Foster Boy who was born to a concubine. Julie also heard that countless people came to him for monthly payments and gifts.

  “His Excellency ranks eighth in the Chu clan, right?” Judy asked Ned.

  “Yeah.”

  Foster Boy fawned upon his adoptive father, and consequently grew very much in his favor, becoming more favored than his own son.

  “That Foster Boy was thoroughly wicked,” said Judy. “Aunt Chu loathed him.”

  “I read about Uncle Chu in the newspaper,” Julie ventured. “What is that all about?”

  “He was tricked by Meng Hsiao-yün. Meng was the one who dragged him into it, and when events took a bad turn, Meng piled everything onto Uncle Chu. That’s why we say, ‘If you have no one in the court to back you, don’t become an official.’ If you don’t have a patron, you only have yourself to blame.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In a hospital,” answered Judy hurriedly, lest she give the impression that he had already been arrested. “He’s sick with hepatitis, seriously ill.” After a moment of silence, she continued, “He’s deep in debt.”

  She added, “I moved house to help save some money.”

  Julie ate dinner at Judy’s and then went out on the balcony to enjoy the cool evening air. Someone came upstairs and knocked on the screen door. It was Brother Hsü.

  The tiny balcony was so narrow that chairs were already pushing up against the iron railings, but another chair was added. They left the light off to avoid attracting mosquitoes.

  “Have you eaten?” Judy asked amicably as she wrung out a hot towel for him.

  Brother Hsü sighed, as though even this simple question did not have a simple answer. He accepted the towel and wiped down his face before sinking into the chair, apparently exhausted.

  Brother Hsü was short. Ever since Julie had shot up a foot she avoided standing next to him so as not to cause embarrassment. But she enjoyed sitting like this in the dark, listening to them talking. They were the most worldly-wise adults in her life. Brother Hsü tittered as he told of the cold reception he had just received. Julie understood nothing of their discussion, which was all about raising funds. They spoke in hushed tones like people who had just set off on a long journey. Julie simply could not imagine how many years it would take to raise that enormous sum.

  That afternoon Brother Hsü had also been to the hospital to visit Uncle Chu. As soon as he enunciated the word “father” it acquired a mistiness, yet it also evoked a hint of resentment. Whenever Julie saw Brother Hsü in Judy’s apartment he rarely greeted Judy as “Aunt,” and when he did, he did not smile. He always spoke with a slightly lower than normal voice, as if he were a little sad. Brother Hsü did not bear any likeness to his father. His long, dark face framed a small protruding nose. The only real connection between the two was that everyone called him Young Master, the suitable appellation for His Excellency’s son.

  The discussion on the balcony suddenly turned to pondering the question: Does platonic love exist?

  “Yes,” said Julie, injecting herself into the conversation for the first time.

  “And how do you know that?” scoffed Judy.

  “Third Aunt and Brother Hsü are an example.”

  The conversation came to an abrupt halt. Then Judy changed the subject and began to ask him about the day’s events.

  Julie regretted saying that to their faces and embarrassing them.

  “We are suing my elder brother over the inheritance,” Judy told Julie one day.

  “Wasn’t the inheritance settled long ago?”

  “We were in a hurry to move so it wasn’t divided up fairly. Actually, all the money belonged to your paternal grandmother—it was her dowry.”

  “Is it still possible to prove it?”

  “Yes.”

  Julie then wondered how Judy could be involved in two court cases at the same time. She couldn’t imagine that the second case was related to the first case, as a way to raise funds to rescue Uncle Chu.

  “Your second uncle is getting married,” Judy told her. “The eleventh daughter of the Keng family—Seventh Aunt’s family made the introduction.”

  Of course, Judy did not reveal that the eleventh daughter of the Keng family once had a love affair with a cousin. They had become intimate, but when her family objected because he was impecunious, the lovers made a suicide pact to take poison together. At the last moment, her cousin backed out and notified the family to take her home from the hotel. After the whole story came out, her father, who had been an important official in the late Ch’ing and early Republican era, wanted to force her to commit suicide. He relented after much persuasion, but from that time on she was tarnished in the eyes of the family and rarely had contact with the outside world. Her father lived into his eighties and for years she smoked opium to relieve her boredom, which of course made it even harder to marry her off.

  Ned was introduced to the eleventh daughter. After they had played mah-jongg a few times, Ned said to Judy, “I know about her past, but I don’t mind. I my
self am not lily-white.”

  “I have helped a great deal with your second uncle’s wedding,” said Judy, “purchasing two suites of furniture for him. They were on sale for a very good price. I have to communicate with him about the inheritance.” Judy needed to offer an explanation. Otherwise, she would have appeared disloyal to Rachel.

  Judy tried hard to curry favor with Jade Flower, calling her “Eleventh Sister.” In reciprocation, Jade Flower called Judy “Third Sister.” When they chatted they realized they were kith and kin. Ned called Jade Flower “Eleventh Younger Sister” but he found it embarrassing and rarely made that salutation in public.

  The two female cousins who made the match insisted that Julie and Julian call Jade Flower “mother.”

  “When you call Ned ‘Second Uncle,’” said Judy behind Ned’s back to Julie, “it actually makes their marriage sound like a younger brother marrying the elder brother’s widow.”

  In addition to busying herself with two court cases and helping Ned with his wedding, Judy also had to take Julie to see a doctor. While Julie appeared to have no trouble with her father marrying a stepmother, she was in fact very distressed, so much so that she contracted a lung disease and a lump appeared under the skin of her armpit that moved to the touch. Julie took medicine for two years before it fully subsided.

  On the wedding day Aunt Chu participated in “teasing the bride.” “This bride is too old, she’s no fun,” Aunt Chu complained to Judy when she came out of the bridal chamber. “So pompous and conceited—she just offered candies and melon seeds. Ned actually was up for some real fun.”

  The female cousins of the Pien clan waited to see the new bride, and informers kept watch in the lane. Ned complained that Julian had adopted bad habits from the Piens, who were all, in his words, “alleyway surveillance commissioners.”