Inheritance

by Lan Samantha Chang

  LI ANG HAD A CONSTELLATION OF SCARS ON HIS BACK, CLUSTERED from his left shoulder blade down to the center of his spine. He was a dark young man, and the wounds had healed to lavender. When he was overheated or emotional, he flushed all over his skin, and the scars shone pale along his back, as marbled as burned flesh.

  He had been wounded in Shanghai during a Japanese provocation. As an errand boy, a volunteer, he’d spied a grenade aimed for the young Corporal Sun Li-jen and had pushed the corporal out of the way. Shrapnel had torn Li Ang’s shoulder; a few pieces lodged near his spine. But Sun had escaped, and in order to show his gratitude, the corporal had sponsored Li Ang in military school.

  Now that Li Ang was commissioned, he felt proud of his scars. He often turned his shoulder to the mirror, craning to see them on his smooth dark back. His father had been a small farmer, virtually a peasant, but he, the son, had now been marked and chosen for a nobler path. He had bought this future with only a small sacrifice of flesh. He didn’t worry for his body. Indeed, there were times when he felt puzzled by his body. Did it belong to him, or did it exist apart from him like the flickering images projected in a movie theater? This dappled shoulder—had it stood in between the corporal and the enemy? Was it truly marked with scars? Or did it still exist somewhere he didn’t know, untouched, as if none of this had happened? Typically he put such thoughts out of his mind. They were as useless as the memories of his mother and father, who had died when he was ten. They were only echoes in his mind, shapes that lingered on the edge of sleep. The gentle sound of her voice, the depth of her soft-lidded eyes. His hand on the bottle of sorghum liquor, fingernails bitten down. Li Ang tried not to think of them, for they were gone.

  THE WICKED PACE of paigao required a bone-deep recognition of the tile combinations and careful observation of the host. Li Ang had learned this from his uncle, who played all games. In the afternoons, Charlie’s stationery shop was a hotbed for go and chess. Charlie could even bluff his way through duplicate bridge. He and his best friend had once won four hundred coppers from the Christian coffers by beating two ministers from the Hangzhou Methodist Church.

  There were seven players, including a bald colonel whose brigade had overrun Nanjing in 1911. He nudged Li Ang. “Ha! Promoted!”

  Charlie showed the gap in his teeth. “Let’s see if you remembered how to have fun in the Army, nephew.”

  Li Ang wondered why his uncle liked to play paigao with this host. Wang Daming appeared moderate: not boisterous, not loud, not large or in any way obvious. Behind his silver spectacles, his eyes were watery and mild; he smelled healthy. Li Ang couldn’t detect a gambler in him from his manners or his old, well-furnished house. But when Wang began to mix the tiles, Li Ang understood. The tiles clicked at a thrilling pace with absolute precision, and yet Wang’s movements worked against this rhythmic exactitude. They were mystical and frantic: back bent, elbows wide, hands somehow dramatic. His fingers moved over and around the tiles, caressing them like prayer beads. Watching and listening, Li Ang knew that Wang was in the grip of a compulsion: he believed in magical thinking as a way to hold off some hidden pain. He would encourage large bets, which he would cover at all cost. Tonight something unusual might happen.

  The baijiu shrank in the bottle; the heat rose into the room. The men grew boisterous. Li Ang thought that only Charlie and the old Colonel Jiang were truly enjoying themselves. One neighbor, Chen, had come only to placate Wang. He drank little, placed careful bets, and won and lost almost nothing. Some of the men drank too much and made sloppy bets. And Wang, that mystical, anxious man, was dissatisfied with them. Li Ang decided to impress Wang. He kept his face serious, as his uncle did.

  Two bottles of baijiu, three bottles. Wang mixed the tiles. This time he bent over them as if he were trying to spark the game with the friction of the tiles against the table. Li Ang thought he heard someone knocking at the door. He turned, but there was no one. Then his attention was brought back to the table by what had been sent to him. A twelve and a red eight, the highest combination. It was time to make his move. He bet everything he had on that round, and the next round, which he won again, with a two and a red eight. Wang smiled and pushed over his chips, and it seemed to Li Ang that some of the tension had left his hands.

  Charlie shrugged. “Young luck,” he said. As if some unseen force had heeded his words, the wins turned away for a few rounds. But Li Ang played those with caution. He had begun to feel luck in the relentless, even clicking of the tiles, in Wang’s wild and caressing hands. He could sense it coming little by little, like a rising wind.

  The tiles lay arranged under the light: long, black bars encrypted with red and white patterns of dots. The ten-dot tile like an arrangement of white flowers. The two-dot tile like an open face. Together, in combinations, the dots could spell out victory, riches, luck; or they could spell defeat. Around this bright table crowded the men with their greedy eyes; also the house; also the great black night; and somewhere in that night, there lay the shadow of all that had ever taken place along with consequences, good and bad. Li Ang held himself apart from this; it was the only way to see it. It was in such a moment that he had seen the man with the grenade aimed for the corporal.

  Now he found the twelve-eight again, and then the intricate pairs. Li Ang made larger bets. He had reached that place apart, where he could play untouched. Another bottle was opened. Smoke rose to the ceiling. Li Ang missed rounds, now and then, but the largest stakes kept coming to him. His pile of chips grew enormous, until he had to reach around it. His uncle sat at ease, his face polite and calm. But Li Ang could see the man was listening. Li Ang sat still. There it was, a soundless rushing. The table seemed far away. The bets dropped neatly out of his mouth as if he were simply relaying messages. They used up all the chips. They tallied up, then divided the chips and started over again. After some time, he realized that the tiles no longer gave off shadows on the tablecloth. The lamps had also dimmed; it was close to dawn. The game was ending.

  He was suddenly exhausted. Before him sat the enormous pile of chips and pieces of paper on which various sums had been written. The table before the host was empty.

  WANG DAMING HAD the heavy safe brought in and he opened it. There, stacked right in front, were tall, neat piles of various banknotes. Wang counted nineteen stacks of bills: eleven hundred from the Central Bank itself, two hundred in notes issued by the Bank of Communications. Then there were six hundred in different notes issued by British, French, and Japanese banks.

  After Wang had counted out this money he paused for a moment. He leaned back into the safe. Carelessly he hauled out bags of silver coins and began to count them into piles. “Our president,” he said, and held aloft a Yüan Shi-k’ai dollar, coined years ago at the hopeful inception of the Republic.

  “A better dollar, more revered,” joked Charlie, picking up another coin, an older, silver Sun Yat-sen that had been minted at the Revolution. Li Ang stood watching the money. Three of those coins would have kept him well fed for a month. Ten would have kept him and his brother living like princes, with plenty for books and tobacco. Soon the coins would be his. As Wang counted, the occasional sound of two coins struck together rang out with a high, shimmering, almost mystical beauty. Occasionally, he paused and laughed. He counted into neat piles of twenty each: three hundred coins for Colonel Jiang, a hundred for Old Chen.

  He was nearing the bottom of the fourth bag. There were only three hundred and sixty-two of the fifty-eight hundred owed his uncle, and Wang had not even begun to pay Li Ang.

  When he finished counting out the fourth bag, Wang turned to his uncle. “For the rest of this, and for your nephew, in the morning I’ll make a trip to town.”

  “All right.”

  His uncle and Wang Daming shook hands, Western-style.

  The men stood to leave. Colonel Jiang, who had drunk heavily, stumbled out the door. Neighbor Chen shook L
i Ang’s hand and bade a polite goodbye to everyone present. As he was saying goodbye to Wang, Charlie struggled for an unusually long time with the sleeve of his jacket. “Nephew,” he said. “Help your old uncle here.” Li Ang had no choice but to stand behind him and help him fit his arm into his sleeve.

  “See you again,” Wang called to Chen, who was nearly out the door.

  “See you again.” The door slammed. They were alone with Wang Daming.

  “My apologies for the delay in payment,” Wang said. He stood before them, tired and diminished but somehow finally at ease.

  “Of course, of course. What’s a little money between us?” Li Ang felt the pressure of his uncle’s arm, resisting the jacket. From the collar of his uncle’s shirt a scent escaped, the smell of sweat and cunning. He was saying, “A little money is nothing. But a drink, now, how about a drink?”

  The bottle was brought in by a sleepy maid.

  Wang Daming poured three shots. “To your winnings. Ganbei!” The delicious liquor scalded Li Ang’s throat.

  “To you.” Charlie raised a glass at Wang. “It’s you who permitted us to win. Only a powerful man could afford to be so generous. You’re a good host. Ganbei!”

  Again, they drank.

  “Still,” said his uncle, considering his glass until Wang took the hint and poured another round, “four thousand yuan: that is quite a lot of money for even the most generous host to pay.”

  Wang shrugged. “My apologies! I’ll have it tomorrow.”

  “Still, since you are a dynamic man, you must not have so much idle at the bank.”

  “As a matter of fact, most of what I have left is tied up in investments.”

  “So you might be open to another form of payment?”

  Wang’s eyes flickered to meet Charlie’s. Li Ang held still, puzzled. Charlie continued thoughtfully. “My nephew is too young for such a fortune. On his behalf, as his uncle, I will ask if you might do the kindness of granting him, instead of money, something else: say, one of your properties.”

  Wang smiled. “I didn’t know your family was interested in the cotton business.”

  Charlie said, “For myself, no. But for my nephew: you do have a property that my nephew is interested in.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Your older daughter, Junan.”

  Li Ang’s mouth opened, and he shut it. The two older men were looking at one another as if he weren’t in the room. Then Wang Daming slapped the air and laughed. “Ha! That’s a good one, my daughter. My daughter.”

  Charlie tilted his head back and laughed along. “She’s of age and she is not yet matched.”

  “I have no intention of marrying off my daughter.”

  Charlie shrugged. “You could do worse,” he said, gesturing at Li Ang. “He’s young, he’s healthy, as you see, and he’s just been promoted. And he’ll be promoted again.” He paused. “With all of the changes due to come, it may be wise to have a shield in the Party.”

  Li Ang frowned. He was a member of the Army—not the Party.

  “You might also consider it repayment of a family debt,” said Charlie.

  The smoke from Wang’s cigarette seemed to stop in the air.

  “If you agree to marry your daughter to my nephew, we’ll wipe out not only what you owe my nephew here but everything you owe to me. I’ll consider tonight’s four thousand yuan my contribution to the wedding.”

  Through a haze of baijiu, weariness, and surprise, Li Ang admired his uncle’s mind for details: he could not afford to pay for a wedding, and now he wouldn’t have to.

  His uncle was saying, “. . . a few minutes to think about it?”

  Wang cleared his throat. “To think about it.”

  “It’s not yet dawn. We’ll wait,” said Charlie. “Why don’t we have another drink?”

  He leaned forward and tilted the bottle into Li Ang’s cup and then Wang Daming’s. “To thinking,” he said. “Ganbei!”

  “Ganbei!”

  After another round, Wang Daming excused himself.

  For several minutes after the door closed behind their host, Li Ang and his uncle sat and waited, saying little. Li Ang searched his mind. He longed to feel once more that sliding, soundless wind of luck. But he was so tired he could barely think; his mind was empty. He looked up for guidance, but Charlie sat expressionless. Then, suddenly noticing his nephew, he jauntily poured another round.

  “To thinking,” he said.

  “To thinking.”

  Charlie had filled the host’s cup, and after he downed his own, he reached for it as well. Li Ang picked up the bottle and raised it to his lips. His uncle wagged a finger at him. “The toast!”

  “The toast.”

  “To marriage,” Charlie said.

  “To marriage,” Li Ang said. He was floating a finger’s width above the chair; he could barely sense the weight of the bottle in his hands. He closed his eyes and drank. The morning sun glowed red against his lids; his ears were ringing. Only the sting of liquor anchored him. “But Uncle Charlie,” he said, letting go of each word carefully as if it were a paper boat in the sea, “I don’t know if I want a wife.”

  “That decision has been taken out of your hands.” He showed Li Ang his gap-toothed smile as if some problem had been solved. How long had he wanted Li Ang married? This was a complicated and startling question. Li Ang vowed to think about it later. Then the room turned neatly, twice. He rested his head in his hands.

  He tried to remember the face of the girl. He could recall only an impression of her height, her graceful coolness, and her fierce hand on his sleeve.

  Someone opened the door.

  “He’s just tired,” Li Ang heard his uncle say. “Did you decide?”

  MY AUNT YINAN HAD SEASHELL EARLOBES, THIN AND SMALL, A sign of an unfortunate life. Her ears were delicate and sensitive to touch. As a child, she feared the ivory wand, narrow as a straw-stem, which was inserted now and then to scrape the wax. Only Junan could wield this instrument without causing pain. While Hu Mudan held up a lamp, Junan would peer into the twisting tunnel of Yinan’s translucent, rosy ear. Junan’s hands were steady and her vision accurate. Years later, Hu Mudan would claim the sisters grew up in such intimacy that Junan had memorized the twists and turns of Yinan’s ear canal. The story was offered as proof that they had been inseparable.

  It was the morning of Junan’s wedding day. As Junan bent over Yinan’s ear, she and Hu Mudan went over the final list of things to do. The red qipao must be checked for loosening beads. Junan would wear this dress to bow before the ancestors. Then she would change into a fashionable white gown for the hotel ceremony and banquet. The two separate gowns and ceremonies were a last-minute compromise for the traditional Mma, who, although she had grown almost blind, was able to see the difference between red and white.

  “Hold still, Meimei.”

  Yinan sighed.

  “To be an elegant girl, you must be clean and have clean ears.”

  “But I don’t want to be an elegant girl.”

  “Just for today,” Junan said. Yinan submitted, and Junan felt some regret that she had insisted on the ear-cleaning. She didn’t want to cause Yinan unnecessary distress. Both sisters felt a dread of separation that roosted like a crow over the wedding plans. Junan had reassured Yinan that nothing would change. She would remain in the Wang house with Yinan. Li Ang, stationed nearby, would visit on his days off, and things would be the same as ever. But she knew better. Any change could lead to trouble. Like her sister, she distrusted any promise of safety. She knew that it could vanish like a stone thrown into a lake.

  She tucked a wisp of hair behind her sister’s ear. Yinan’s hair, although not black or glossy enough to be considered beautiful, was thick and soft to the touch. Leaning closer, Junan noticed some
thing on the scalp. She bent and parted the tender waves. There, at the roots, a large, red pimple had been scratched open.

  “Meimei, what is this?”

  “I don’t know. It itches.”

  “You’ve broken the skin.”

  Junan noticed another spot. She pulled down the shirt to examine Yinan’s neck. There were pimples on her back and chest.

  Junan consulted Hu Mudan. The woman bent over Yinan and nodded briefly.

  “Tell me what it is,” Junan demanded. “What illness does she have?”

  “She has the shuidou,” Hu Mudan said matter-of-factly. “It is a normal childhood disease.”

  “Is there any way to cover her forehead? Everyone will see it.”

  Hu Mudan shook her head. “She can come with us to the hotel, but she should not attend the wedding. This pox is easy to catch. And it’s dangerous for any pregnant woman or any adult who hasn’t had it as a child.”

  “I’m sorry, Jiejie!” Yinan hung her head.

  “She should be kept from scratching. She can be cooled with wet cloths. The pox has to run its course.”

  Junan thought quickly. “Tell them to pull one chair away from the banquet table. And Yinan. Stop looking like that. Let’s go to your room.”

  “May I bring Guagua?” From the courtyard, they could hear the clucking of Hu Mudan’s pet hen.

  Junan shook her head. “Keep that chicken out of here. For all we know, you caught this illness from that filthy bird.”