by Jade Lee
Ru Shan. Wonderful Ru Shan, dressed in a red silk tunic, covered in elaborate embroidery too varied for her to follow.
The ribbon jumped in her hand, tugged by Ru Shan. She held fast, her eyes trained on her love. But he continued to tug, pulling her step by tottering step into his home.
She made it through the courtyard, unable to see much of anything because she remained focused on her husband. He would see her through this.
Except, of course, he was walking away. Backing up as he tugged her into a recessed chamber. She knew what it was. Fu De had already told her.
She was going into the Cheng family ancestral place. That was where she would be formally introduced to all of Ru Shan's family. Before the ancestral altar. So she followed Ru Shan's tugging ribbon, walking calmly, pleased that she was getting the hang of these ridiculous wooden shoes.
Until she saw the other obstacle. The large slat of wood at the base of the doorway. It was there by custom because the Chinese believed ghosts could not climb over obstacles. Therefore, traditional doorways had a long slat of wood before the entrance. If forced the humans to step over the board to enter. Ghosts, of course, were blocked.
Whatever the reason, it made it excruciatingly difficult for her to maneuver in her high shoes and tight gown. She ended up gripping Fu De's arm and trying to half jump, half stumble across the threshold. Not the most auspicious way to enter the ancestral temple.
She thought she made it. She was hauling herself up by sheer will, no doubt nearly yanking poor Fu De's arm off as she went. But her gown got caught behind and beneath her. In English shoes, she might have made it. Without grace, certainly, but not bodily harm. In high Chinese formal shoes and a foreign gown, she hadn't a prayer. Her feet went out from under her, and she released a puppyish yip of alarm as she began to fall.
Her fan and the ribbon went flying, her free arm started flailing, and she couldn't even get a knee under herself to catch her fall. Her gown was still half a step behind her, preventing her from finding any purchase beyond flat-out on her face.
It was horrible, especially as it seemed to happen in excruciatingly slow motion.
Just before she was about to land face-first in a smear of oily water, she felt her body stop. It took a moment before she realized she had not hit the floor, but that strong arms had caught her.
Another breath, and she knew who had saved her. It was Ru Shan, of course. And what an entrance she'd made, falling flat out at her husband's feet.
Or rather almost flat out. Instead, he was holding her, gently supporting her while Fu De apparently released her gown from whatever demon nail had grabbed hold. It was another long moment before he could gently, carefully, set her on her feet. Especially as her knees were weak and she had to find the strength and balance to stand again on those damned shoes.
But that didn't matter now, she reminded herself. Because Ru Shan had caught her. Ru Shan was here. In fact, he was smiling warmly at her as he slowly lifted her veil off her face.
"Well met, my wife," he said formally in Shanghainese.
She was supposed to say something in response. Something Fu De had coached her in, but for the life of her she couldn't remember. Indeed, Lydia couldn't think at all except to see his wonderful face smiling at her.
Except, he wasn't smiling at her. He was turning, leading her into the ancestral building. She looked quickly around. At the center of the building stood a table supporting long wood tablets with etched Chinese characters. She didn't have time to read them, but she knew from Fu De that they were the names of all the male Chengs. The surrounding pillars also had colorful decorations—dragons, phoenixes, and ancient proverbs—all painted with loving care.
But none of that held her attention. Instead, she was looking at the people standing in a line along the side wall. Ru Shan's relatives. And she was to serve them tea by way of introduction.
But first she had to greet the ancestors. Ru Shan led her to the altar, then assisted her to her knees. That, too, was exceedingly difficult in her tight dress, but fortunately, she had long slits up the sides of the gown, allowing her to move. The air hit her bare legs, and she tried not to be embarrassed. After all, the Chinese considered a low neckline scandalous, but a leg was nothing exciting to them. Only she, a Victorian Englishwoman, would feel embarrassed by it.
And she was a Chinese wife now, she reminded herself. So she knelt down and kowtowed three times to the ancestors, touching her forehead to the hardwood floor.
"This is Cheng Lydia, my ancestors," Ru Shan intoned. "She will bring great prosperity to your descendants."
Then he helped her stand, holding her up as she tottered on her shoes. She had barely straightened to her full height when Fu De appeared beside her, offering a chalice of sorts. It was small and made of fine porcelain, and was obviously the ceremonial teacup, already filled with tea. It was time to greet her new relatives.
With Ru Shan's help, she tottered to the head of the line, Ru Shan's father. He was a stern-looking man with fleshy cheeks and a scowl. He leaned heavily on a cane and barely deigned look at her, even as he raised a bored hand to take the tea.
"The Cheng father," said Ru Shan, an extra measure of flatness in his tone.
Ru Shan's father drank from the cup, but he did so slowly, his eyes trained not on Lydia, but on Ru Shan. Was the man angry that she was white? Lydia couldn't tell. But there was clearly something unspoken between father and son.
Then it was Ru Shan's grandmother's turn. She had white hair, red eyes, and a sweaty, beady, sullen expression. Her clothes seemed to hang on her, and there was an emptiness in her expression that quickly filled with maliciousness the moment Lydia offered her the cup.
"The Cheng grandmother."
She took the cup, but Lydia didn't think the woman would drink. From her expression, she was more likely to spit in it. But eventually the old woman raised the cup, barely wetting her lips with the brew while her eyes burned with bitter hatred.
Lydia swallowed. She would not cry. She would not cry. She had already been warned that these people would not appreciate a white daughter-in-law. Thankfully, the worst of the introductions were already over. There was only a small boy of about eight years old left, standing before a woman who looked to be at least ten years older than Ru Shan. His sister no doubt, though Lydia could detect no family resemblance.
"And this," Ru Shan intoned, "is my wife number one and our son."
Once a statue is finished
It is too late to change the arms.
Only with a virgin block
Are there possibilities.
—Deng Ming-Dao
~
Chapter 16
Lydia blinked, sure she had misheard. This woman—this haughty-looking, angry woman—couldn't possibly be Ru Shan's wife. Lydia was his wife. She remembered quite clearly going to the mission and getting married. Getting legally and ecclesiastically married. To Ru Shan. Which meant he couldn't possibly have another wife. That would be impossible.
More than that, it would be just plain wrong.
"I'm sorry," she said, hating that her voice came out in a trembling whisper. Then, in order to strengthen herself, she switched over to English. "I apologize, my love, but I must have misheard you. Who exactly is this woman? Your sister?"
Ru Shan turned, clearly confused by her tone of voice, but he obediently switched into English, his words unmistakable. "My sister and her husband will not be joining us today." He sounded angry at that, but Lydia barely cared. Her attention was completely focused on his next words.
"This is Tai Mei, my first wife. And our son, Zun Ran."
Lydia tried to swallow, but her throat felt too tight for such a movement. All she could do was close her eyes, hating the tears that prickled beneath her lashes. "You are divorced then?" she whispered.
"Divorce? I do not know this English word."
She opened her eyes, searching his face, looking at the man she loved, desperately hoping to find some ans
wer in his expression. All she saw was confusion. "Divorce," she said clearly, "means you were once married, but then are not anymore. Both husband and wife go their separate ways and can marry someone else."
He reared back as if slapped. "How can someone be married and then not married? Only a true barbarian would do that."
She stiffened, her shoulders squaring as anger began to rise within her. "It is very rare," she snapped, "but it happens. So is this woman your former wife?"
"Of course not," he responded, his tone equally curt. "When the Chinese marry, it is for life. We do not take and abandon women like toys!"
She nodded, though why she was doing so, she couldn't possibly fathom. At the moment, it was all she could do not to scratch out his eyes. But she would not act in such a fashion over a simple misunderstanding. And so she tried again. "If this woman is your wife, Ru Shan, then what am I?"
He stared at her, his expression slowly clearing. "You are my second wife, Lydia. The first wife of my choosing."
"Second wife?"
He nodded. "Of course."
"We don't have second wives in England, Ru Shan. We have only first wives."
He smiled at her, then, though the expression remained tentative at best. "Ah," he said. "Now I understand." Though clearly he did not. "I am a man of wealth, Lydia. Our family is a great family. Of course I have a first wife. We were wed when I was eight." He smiled and patted his son's head. "There was much pressure for me to choose more wives earlier, but I resisted." He turned his attention back to her. "Lydia, you are the first wife of my choosing."
She didn't know what to say. How did one respond when face-to-face with your husband's other wife? A wife you didn't know existed before now? "We don't have second wives in England," she repeated.
"You don't need to. You toss aside your wives in this divorce. Then you pick another."
She shook her head. "That doesn't happen."
"But you just said—"
"It doesn't happen often." She straightened. "What never, ever, ever happens is for a man to have two wives at the same time!" She hadn't intended to screech, but by the end of her sentence, her voice had risen to near hysteria. All Ru Shan could do was stare at her in stunned shock. He and all his bizarre relatives.
"But Lydia, you are in China now," he said, his very calm tone only adding fuel to her fury. "In China," he continued, "a man of means has many wives."
She squared her shoulders, lifting herself up to her full height on her ridiculous shoes. "Not my husband, Ru Shan."
He frowned, his expression becoming darker. "Lydia," he said in a warning tone. "Do not shame me before my relatives."
"Do not shame you?" she asked, her tone becoming mocking. "Did it ever occur to you that I might feel a bit of shame being introduced to my husband's wife?"
He lifted his hands, clearly at a loss. "I told you, I am a man of means. How could you think I did not have a wife?"
"I am English," she shot back. "How could you think I would marry a man who was already married?"
Lydia began to tremble, fury lending strength to her movements. The beautiful teacup she held flew from her hand to shatter on the floor at his feet. Then she reached up into her hair, dragging the ivory sticks out and whipping them onto the floor in front of her husband's feet. Ru Shan stared at her in shock, flinching as the second hit the tile with a clatter. Behind him, his grandmother began to laugh—a cold, dark titter that grew in volume. Lydia barely heard. She was too intent on unstrapping and kicking off her stupid shoes, using as much violence in her motions as she dared. If she could have, she would have ripped the gown off her body as well, but she had nothing else to wear. She had to be content with wiping off the makeup onto her sleeve. It was a terrible thing to do to such beautiful silk, but the ugly smear of white, black, and red gave her some measure of satisfaction.
And all the while, Ru Shan's grandmother continued to laugh, now joined by Ru Shan's wife. His father, too, began to chuckle, while Ru Shan's face turned dark red, similar somehow to the stain upon her gown.
Only the boy seemed unaffected, his almond eyes larger than normal, their dark centers seeming to encompass not only his face, but his whole body as well. The child, it seemed, was simply a witness, absorbing everything in silence. Lydia spared a moment to wonder if he understood anything of what was happening. Probably more than she did, she thought with a near hysterical laugh.
All the while, Ru Shan's family continued to guffaw, their mockery echoing in the small room.
"God, I was such a fool," Lydia said to no one in particular. "Love. Marriage. Children. I knew you were Chinese—"
"Yes, I am—" Ru Shan began, but she didn't let him continue. She spoke without thought, not caring that she was saying things she hadn't even acknowledged to herself.
"I loved you, Ru Shan." She didn't say the words. She spat them. Right at his face. "That's right. I. Loved. You." Then she straightened, glaring disdainfully at everyone around her. "I am such a fool!"
Her stocking feet were quickly soaked with spilled tea, but she barely noticed as she spun on her heel. She headed straight for the door and freedom. She cared little for what she was doing, only that she left Ru Shan far, far behind.
He stepped forward, easily cutting her off. "Don't be a fool, Lydia. Where will you go?"
His tone couldn't be less loverlike, but that only steeled her resolve as she stomped past.
"Lydia!" he snapped again, this time grabbing her arm. "We were wed in an English church. By both our laws, you are my wife!"
This time she could not restrain it; a caustic, bitter sound welled up from some painful center within her. It burned as it went, eventually coming out as a half sob, half scream. She had no ability to shape it into words. It was merely sound and pain and anger all merged together as she tore away from him and ran for the door.
This time she had no trouble leaping over the door frame and then out of his home. Her only difficulty was in keeping her gown out from under her stocking feet—but even the English knew how to hold up skirts. Part of her mind demanded to know what she was thinking. Where was she going? Indeed, it was possible those were the very words that Ru Shan was bellowing after her. But she gave him no more heed than she had before.
She wanted escape. Distance. Silence. And so she ran. As fast and as far as she could, her attention focused completely and totally on keeping her steps out of the street garbage. She allowed no other thought, no other emotion. Simply keeping her feet out of the garbage as she ran.
Until she could not run anymore. Until her feet ached from the pounding and her side screamed from the stitch that felt more like a knife. She slowed then, knowing as she did that she would soon be forced to think. She would soon realize she was sobbing. She was in the middle of Chinese Shanghai. Dressed as a second wife. Without shoes, in the middle of the street.
She did not want to understand that, but of course she did. She knew. And pain brought her to her knees.
Noises surrounded her. Sounds not much farther than her own gasping breath. They were foreign sounds. Chinese sounds. But she wanted nothing to do with anything Chinese ever again. Nothing! So she blocked them out, covering her ears when they would not go away.
Another sound penetrated her consciousness. English words, muffled, but clear enough. She straightened slowly, allowing her hands to slip from her ears.
Definitely good, solid, English words. Spoken in a foreign accent.
FuDe.
She wanted to slap her hands over her ears again but knew it would be childish. Besides, she had now actually lifted her gaze from the pavement to see a mass of babbling Chinese people on a strange street. She was completely lost, dressed bizarrely, and without the heart right now to find the Shanghainese she needed to sort it all out.
She needed help. And right now, that help was Fu De.
Slowly, she pushed to her feet. A thousand tiny hands helped her up, though the result was that people crowded ever closer to her.
> "Fu De?" she croaked, the sound barely above a whisper. She swallowed. "Fu De?" she called, her voice gaining strength and clarity.
"Mistress Lydia!" Fu De answered as he pushed through the crowd. "Mistress Lydia!"
She winced at his words, even though he surely didn't understand the other meaning of the word mistress. He simply knew it as a form of address, and likely intended it as such.
But she knew the truth now, didn't she? She knew that she was something worse than a mistress. After all, in London, some courtesans were actually lauded as intelligent, amazing women desired by all. A mistress was simply one step below that.
Not so a concubine. That was a foreign word, indicating a woman trapped in slavery to some foreign devil.
"Mistress Lydia, please wait!"
She did, though she doubted he could see her. And then the young man finally appeared at her side, his long queue in disarray beneath his sweat-stained cap.
"Mistress Lydia! Please, I beg you..."
"Take a breath, Fu De," she said with as much calm as she could muster. "I am not running anymore." She didn't know what made her say that, but once the words were out, they felt correct. And they strengthened her. She wiped off her face with her stained gown and tried to take stock of her surroundings. "Back away, please," she said in Shanghainese.
All around her, people gasped in shock and stepped back. Apparently a white woman in concubine clothing was not nearly as remarkable as hearing her speak their language. Whatever the reason, Lydia and Fu De abruptly had more breathing room.
"Mistress Lydia," Fu De began in English. "You cannot run about Shanghai like this. It is unseemly."
"More unseemly than marrying a married man?" she shot back. She instantly regretted her words, because Fu De simply blinked in confusion. She waved her hand in his direction, intending to tell him to "never mind," but he was too quick for her.
