Traces of Love

by Eileen Chang

  The old lady did not have a suitable reply to this, so she smiled back at her. Dunfeng guessed what the old lady had in mind, and continued before she could say anything, ‘I know you’re going to say that there’s more to a marriage than that, but with someone like Mr Mi, it’s difficult to have feelings for him.’

  ‘He really treats you well, and as far as I can see, you don’t treat him badly either.’

  ‘Well, even if it’s for completely selfish reasons I have to take care of him: what to wear, what to eat … I have to make sure that he gets fed properly so he’ll live a couple of years more.’ Having made such a good joke, she started laughing at it herself.

  ‘Fortunately Mr Mi seems very fit; he doesn’t look sixty,’ said the old lady.

  ‘Just now when I told you about the fortune-teller on the street – I only told you half of it because he was here. The man said he had a high standing in the business world, and that he would have more than one wife. He also said his wife will die this year.’

  ‘Oh? So she won’t be recovering from this illness,’ said the old lady.

  ‘Well, I asked the fortune-teller whether I was going to die, and he said it wouldn’t be me. He said things would just get better and better for me.’

  ‘I suppose that woman might as well call it quits,’ said the old lady.

  Dunfeng looked down at her knees as she went on hammering and massaging them. She said with a quiet smile, ‘I’d think so.’

  An amah came in to say that someone from the boiler room had come to deliver the bath water. The old lady complained, ‘I asked for it this morning, and it isn’t delivered until now! I have a guest here.’

  Dunfeng said immediately, ‘Don’t think of me as a guest, Auntie. Go and have your bath. I’ll just sit here for a while.’

  An old labourer carried two buckets of water into the room, splashing water on the floor. The old lady went with him to the bathroom and told him to pour the water into the tub, warning him to be careful not to let his carrying pole dirty her towels.

  Dunfeng sat alone in the room, and suddenly everything turned quiet. The neighbour’s telephone started ringing. In the silence it seemed to be ringing right in her ear: ‘R-i-n-g! R-i-n-g!’ over and over again, but no one picked it up. It was like having so much to say but no way to say it; the agitation, the entreaty and the urgency were most dramatic. For no obvious reason Dunfeng was shaken by it. She recalled how unsettled Mr Mi had looked in the last couple of days. She did not understand his concern; she did not want to. Dunfeng stood up and, with her arms crossed in front of her chest, stared defensively at the wall. ‘R-i-n-g! R-i-n-g!’ The phone kept on ringing, and gradually it sounded very sad. It seemed that even this house she was in was empty.

  Old Mrs Yang marched the labourer back into the room. Dunfeng turned around and said, ‘You can hear the telephone next door very clearly.’

  ‘These houses aren’t built properly. The walls are too thin,’ said the old lady.

  Old Mrs Yang had to pay for the water. There was a stack of banknotes on the mantelpiece, and she gave the man an extra ten dollars as a tip. The labourer wiped the icicles off his whiskers, thanked her and left. The old lady sighed, ‘Who’d thank you for a ten-dollar tip these days? This old labourer is a saintly old gent.’ Dunfeng laughed along with the old lady.

  Old Mrs Yang went into the bathroom. Not long afterwards, Mrs Yang came upstairs and asked as soon as she walked in: ‘Is the old lady having her bath?’

  Dunfeng nodded. Mrs Yang said, ‘I’ve hung a scarlet sweater on the bathroom door. I better take it out. The steam in the bathroom will probably fade it.’

  She tried to open the bathroom door. Dunfeng said, ‘It’s probably locked.’

  Mrs Yang sat down on the opium couch and pulled her fake caracul coat tighter round her shoulders. Since there was no man around, she had put away all her liveliness.

  ‘How many rounds did you play? How come the game has broken up so early?’ asked Dunfeng.

  ‘A couple of them have some business to attend to and had to leave early.’

  Dunfeng looked at her and said with a smile, ‘You really know how to take it easy. That’s a good way to pass the time.’

  ‘Everyone disapproves of me, I know. But the money that changes hands on a mahjong table is negligible – how much can I lose? Now if you look at your cousin, he doesn’t come home after work these days, and wherever he spends his time, even if he just sits there, he has to pay! And now everyone says it’s my fault, that I’ve made it impossible for him to come home! This family is now completely dependent on the old lady for everything.’ Mrs Yang leaned forward a bit, then continued in a lower voice, ‘The situation being what it is, do you think the old lady’s mumbling about saving a penny here and there will do us much good? A good few small businessmen living in this alley have made it big. If they were to tip us off in one of their deals, or let us have a small share of it, that’d make all the difference!’

  ‘So you must have made quite a killing,’ Dunfeng said.

  Mrs Yang leaned back, supporting herself with her arms stretched to the back, and said sarcastically, ‘If we want a share we’ve got to lay out the money, and money is none of my business here. If I were to take over the management of the household I’m sure she’d pick a big row. But as it is, she complains that I don’t do anything.’

  All of a sudden she jumped up, pointed to the office desk, chair and filing cabinet, and said with hatred in her voice, ‘Just look at this, and this! She monopolizes everything! Look, even the telephone and the fridge … I don’t care about these things, or else …’

  Dunfeng realized that the walls were thin. Afraid that the conversation could be overheard in the bathroom, she dared not follow up on the topic, but tried to change the subject, saying, ‘The man who was playing the flute downstairs for Yue, who’s he?’

  ‘He’s also a member of the Opera Association. Yue just keeps to herself too much. Actually her classmates are all on more friendly terms with me, and I try to keep on their good side. When my younger ones have problems with their school work, I just ask them to help out – that saves hiring a tutor. And sometimes they run errands for me. We don’t have enough servants here, you know, so that helps. But sometimes they cause me unexpected trouble as well.’ She was sitting on the edge of the bed, with her elbows on her knees. Her face was almost buried in her coat and she sniffed at it deeply. Then she said nonchalantly, ‘I keep joking with myself – seems that my share of romance is far from over!’

  She waited quietly for Dunfeng to question her. When nothing happened she cast a glance at Dunfeng. Some time in the past Dunfeng had been interested in Mrs Yang’s encounters, but now her circumstances were different. She was married, and as a married woman she looked at extramarital relationships with a critical eye. No matter how many lovers Mrs Yang had, they could neither marry her nor take care of her financially. Dunfeng put on a solemn expression. To show that only Yue’s marriage prospects were worthy of discussion, she asked, ‘Does Yue have a friend?’

  ‘I never interfere as far as she’s concerned. If I come up with anything, her granny and her father are both sure to object.’

  ‘The man I saw just now, I don’t think he’s much good,’ said Dunfeng.

  ‘You mean the one playing the flute? There’s nothing going on there,’ replied Mrs Yang.

  Yet Dunfeng was a woman with a ‘marriage complex’. To her, every man was a possibility until it was proved beyond any doubt that the possibility did not exist. She therefore persisted, ‘I don’t think he’s much good. What do you think?’

  Mrs Yang lost her patience. With her chin cupped in her hands, she stamped her foot on the floor and said, ‘There’s nothing in it!’

  ‘It’s true that I only saw him briefly … He seems to be the slippery type,’ said Dunfeng.

  Mrs Yang smiled and said, ‘I know the kind of man you like. Looks don’t matter that much, but he has to be reliable, gentle and cons
iderate, like Mr Mi.’

  Dunfeng was silent, but her face slowly flushed red.

  Mrs Yang stretched out her snowy fragrant hand to take hold of Dunfeng’s hand. She said with a smile, ‘You look so well these days … A life like yours can probably be said to be ideal!’

  Were Dunfeng to admit to being happy in front of Mrs Yang, she would also be admitting to owing her a favour. That was why she had to complain more bitterly than ever. She said, ‘You’d never realize what I have to put up with!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mrs Yang.

  Dunfeng bowed her head. Her hands were on her knees – one hand was clenched in a fist, gently hammering one knee; the other was massaging the other knee, up and down. Hammering and massaging, she was the very picture of concentration. Her cheeks were puffed out childishly. She said, ‘The old woman’s ill. The fortune-teller said that his wife will die this year. Didn’t you see how disgustingly unsettled he looked?’

  With half of her face buried in her coat, Mrs Yang observed Dunfeng with narrowed, judgemental eyes. She thought: ‘Now that she’s a concubine she certainly behaves like one! All this “old woman” stuff. Next she’ll be calling Mr Mi “the old man”!’

  Mrs Yang laughed and said, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if she died?’

  Dunfeng was not pleased with her teasing tone of voice. She replied, ‘I don’t want her to die. She’s no obstacle as far as I’m concerned!’

  ‘That’s true. If I were you I wouldn’t care about names and titles. The important thing is to get your hands on the money,’ said Mrs Yang.

  Dunfeng sighed, saying, ‘I suppose everyone thinks that I’ve made a fortune out of him! Well, of course I know that he’ll do well by me in his will, but if he doesn’t bring it up, I can’t very well mention it either …’

  Mrs Yang opened her eyes wide, working herself up on Dunfeng’s behalf: ‘Why, you should ask him!’

  ‘If I do that, won’t he have doubts about me?’

  For a moment Mrs Yang looked stumped, then she said, ‘Don’t be foolish! Money does pass through your hands, so you can accumulate your own nest-egg bit by bit.’

  ‘I don’t know how it can be done,’ answered Dunfeng. ‘Times are different now. Men are always talking about the price of rice and coal; everyone knows what things cost. Though Mr Mi is still with the brokerage in name, he has effectively retired. His outlay is immense – the upkeep of the children who are all away from home is considerable – it makes sense for us to watch our expenses. And yet at home all the servants have been with him a long time, and they carry on with their old ways. Like last time when Amah Zhang went back to her home village for a visit, there was no end to it! First she said, “Mrs Mi, I would like a few dollars so I could buy some material to give away as presents.” Then when she came back she brought chickens, eggs, wholemeal noodles, sticky dumplings … We couldn’t possibly just accept her gifts. Someday we’ll be broke because of this! Every time she wanted something she just thrusts her face in front of me and says “Mrs Mi this, Mrs Mi that”. As for Mr Mi, he just encourages them. No matter what it is, he says, “Go and ask the Mrs!” I suppose he means well, letting me do the servants the favours …’

  Mrs Yang stole a glance at Dunfeng, listening to her repetition of ‘Mrs Mi’ with a smile. She thought: A veritable concubine!

  Old Mrs Yang emerged from the bathroom after her bath and told an old amah to go and scrub the tub. She asked, ‘How come there is this smell of steam? Are you ironing?’

  Without waiting for the amah’s reply she went out to have a look. Sure enough the ironing-board was standing on the staircase landing. The old lady was furious, saying, ‘Who told you to do the ironing? Am I the only one to be affected if the fuse blows from overloading? I don’t want to be grumbling all day long, but times have changed!’

  Amid this bustle Mr Mi arrived. Dunfeng was sitting in the room. Through the open door she could see Mr Mi walking up the stairs, and she was pleased. But she pretended to be surprised, asking, ‘Hey, how come you’re back?’

  Mr Mi smiled and said, ‘I was on my way home, so I thought I’d come and pick you up.’

  Mrs Yang came out of the bathroom carrying her sweater. Her hands were thrust into the sleeves of the scarlet sweater which she flapped about, hitting Dunfeng a couple of times with them. She laughed and said, ‘Just look at how nice Mr Mi is, how considerate! Coming to take you home in this rain.’

  Mr Mi brushed his overcoat and said with a smile, ‘It’s stopped raining now.’

  ‘Do stay for a while longer. You hardly come by these days,’ said Mrs Yang.

  Mr Mi took off his overcoat and sat down. Mrs Yang glanced at him sideways, smiled, and said very slowly: ‘And how are you, Mr Mi?’

  Mr Mi replied with a cautious smile, ‘I’m fine. And you, Mrs Yang?’

  Mrs Yang sighed and answered with a ‘Fine’; the sigh went on endlessly.

  Dunfeng listened to all this, disgusted with Mrs Yang’s pretence, and also angry with Mr Mi for speaking so cautiously, as if afraid that she would make too much out of this. She thought: Frankly, she’ll not be interested in an old man like you whatever the case! Do you really think she has her eye on you?

  But even now anger gnawed at her whenever Mrs Yang’s name was mentioned, partly because there was no new target for her jealousy – she did not feel too strongly about ‘the old woman’. Now that she, Mrs Yang and Mr Mi were sitting in a gradually darkening room, she again dug out the skeletal remains of their unformed triangular love affair and relived its memories. She had triumphed. Though it wasn’t much of a victory, it counted nonetheless. With faked nonchalance she picked up a cup of tea – a cup of cold tea in the cold house of her relatives. There was a trace of lip rouge on the rim of the cup; she turned it around, only to see another red half-moon stain. She frowned. Her expensive lipsticks certainly did not run, so it must have been that the Yangs didn’t wash their cups properly. Who knows who had drunk from it! She turned the cup round again to find a clean spot, but she did not really mean to drink the tea.

  Seeing that Mr Mi had come back, the old lady wanted to make sure that Mrs Yang would not have a chance to chat him up, so she quickly sent the amah away and came back into the room. Mrs Yang saw through this and smiled with disgust. She sniffed, and then stood up saying casually, ‘I’ll tell them to get some snacks.’

  She turned to walk away, wearing her coat like a shawl, under which her shapely legs criss-crossed as they made their way delicately out. The old lady was afraid that she would use this opportunity to indulge in buying unnecessary snacks, so she followed her and called out, ‘Some baked sweet potatoes will do; they’ve just come into season.’

  ‘Auntie, there’s no need to fuss, we’re not hungry,’ said Dunfeng. But the old lady ignored her protest.

  The old lady and her daughter-in-law stood on the landing instructing the servant to go out for sweet potatoes. Then they started complaining quietly. The old lady said, ‘Dunfeng used to be so careful about things like this. She used to be embarrassed about dining at someone’s house more than once, and sometimes she would bring some snacks along herself. Now that she doesn’t have to be concerned about such things, she thinks that we don’t have to count the pennies either …’

  Mrs Yang laughed and said, ‘That’s rich people for you. If they don’t skimp, they’re not the rich.’

  Dunfeng sat alone with Mr Mi in the room; for some reason both of them felt slightly embarrassed. Though Dunfeng pulled a long face, she could feel that her eyes were smiling like the new moon.

  Mr Mi asked with a smile, ‘Well? When do we go home?’

  ‘We wouldn’t have anything to eat at home. I told the amah we wouldn’t be back for dinner,’ Dunfeng replied. Unable to suppress her smile, she asked, ‘How come you’re back here so quickly? You must have rushed there and back.’

  Before Mr Mi could reply, the two Mrs Yangs returned to the room. They chatted as they ate the baked sweet potatoes. The
re were two left, and old Mrs Yang told the servant to summon the youngest child so that she could have them while they were still warm. The little girl came in, shouting, ‘Granny, look! There’s a rainbow in the sky.’

  Old Mrs Yang opened one of the French windows and everyone walked out on to the balcony. Dunfeng stuck her hands into her sleeves, shivered, and said, ‘Now that it’s cleared up, it’s going to be even colder. I wonder what the temperature is.’

  She walked to the mantelpiece to look at the thermometer. It was in the shape of a green glass tower, something she had known well since she was a young girl. The sun was shining on it and a green patch of light was reflected on to the sofa. The sun had indeed come out.

  Dunfeng picked up the thermometer. Suddenly the neighbour’s telephone started ringing again: ‘R-i-n-g! R-i-n-g!’ She listened attentively. Someone actually picked up the phone – she was relieved. It was an amah’s loud voice, an impatient ‘Hello?’ which cut off the hesitant pleading at the other end of the line. What followed was a stream of blah-blah-blah; she couldn’t tell what was being said. Dunfeng stood there in a trance. When she turned around to look at the balcony, she saw Mr Mi’s back. His half-bald head merged into his fat neck. Behind him, a short, straight section of a rainbow hung in the azure sky – red, yellow, violet and orange. The sun was shining on the balcony. Sunlight on the concrete railings – a heavy golden sheen – momentary, and late in the day.

  Mr Mi looked up at the rainbow, thinking of his dying wife. With her death, most of his life would be over, too. The sorrow and anger he had felt when they were living together were forgotten, completely forgotten. Mr Mi looked at the rainbow. His love for the world was no longer love, it became compassion.

  Dunfeng put on her overcoat and took Mr Mi’s scarf out to the balcony, saying, ‘You’d better put it on. It’s getting cold.’ As she said so, she looked at her aunt and her cousin’s wife and smiled apologetically, intimating: It’s all for the money, of course. For my own sake I have to take good care of him. We all know what it’s about.