by Li, Veronica
With Uncle Ben’s backing, my wish prevailed. I tendered my resignation at New Method. The principal, a skinny, tight-fisted man who was notorious for his adeptness at the abacus, called me in to express his displeasure. The returns on his investment in me had been most unsatisfactory. I apologized copiously, while silently hoping that I would never have to ask this man for a favor again.
*
My first day at Southeast Asia Trading started off like a holiday. I woke up at the hour I used to leave for my teaching job. After seeing the children off, I sat down to a leisurely breakfast and even had time to read the papers. Instead of public buses, I rode with my manager in the company car.
Southeast Asia Trading was located in the Western District on Hong KongIsland. This neighborhood was home to many Swatow businesses. From the time I could find my way around, Mother had sent me there on errands. As the car drove through the main street, I could see that while the rest of Hong Kong had developed into a modern city, this area was frozen in its own time zone. The herbal pharmacies and snake meat restaurants of my childhood were still standing. The reptiles coiled at the shop windows, which had made me stop and stare wide-eyed, were still hissing. The buildings were also the same, but now looking gray and stooped like old people. In my eyes, though, they were more becoming than the glittering high-rises just a few blocks away.
A sea breeze woke me from my reverie. The car had reached a line of dilapidated buildings along the waterfront. This was the rice hong row, the distribution center for the most important commodity in the colony. Alighting in front of Uncle Ben’s company, I turned around to watch the activities across the road. Several cargo boats were moored along the shore. They sank low into the sea, weighted down by bags of rice that had been off-loaded from ships in the harbor. Bare-chested coolies emerged from the hulls, bent under burlap sacks heavier than they. Without the least wavering, they trudged down narrow gangplanks from which I would have fallen without carrying anything. They were small men, made of nothing but steel and rawhide. Their burden was inhuman, yet there was no other way to get the rice into the warehouses.
I hurried after my husband into the building. The clerks stood up to greet us. Some of them peeped slyly at me, a sure sign they’d been talking about me. I returned with a broad smile to put them at ease. I might be the boss’s wife, but I wasn’t going to boss them around. Following Hok-Ching up a rickety staircase, I looked down and saw how tattered the place was. The bare concrete floor was the color of mud. The clerks’ desks were clustered in untidy rows. Nowhere was there a single decoration in this all-male environment.
The offices in the loft weren’t much better. The linoleum-covered floor was so flimsily built that it squeaked every time somebody walked on it. On the other hand, an air conditioning unit kept the temperature comfortably cool. Compared to the clerks downstairs, I had it good. Hok-Ching pointed to the desk where I was supposed to sit, and went into his own office on the other side of the partition. Actually, it was only half a partition. From my desk I could see everything that my husband was doing. The design was meant to allow the manager to keep an eye on the cashier, but it worked the other way too.
Mr. Ng, who sat across from Hok-Ching, came over to welcome me. He was the secretary, a big, tall man with a sonorous voice and superbly polished manners. I liked him immediately, for anyone who could work at such close quarters with my husband deserved my admiration.
I heard a commotion downstairs. Seeing my alarm, Hok-Ching took me to a window where I could look down at the ground floor. A horde of men was stampeding in. From my view I could only see the black tops of their heads and fists shooting into the air. The din they made sounded like war cries. I thought a fistfight was about to break out, but all I saw was a man run up to the blackboard and scribble some numbers. The shouting went on, and the board kept filling up with numbers. Then as suddenly as the men had appeared, they were gone.
Hok-Ching explained to me that what I had witnessed was an auction. The men were distributors making bids on their merchandise. The names of the different rice varieties were written on the board, and every time there was a winning bid the amount was recorded next to the variety. I read out a few names and realized that they were all female. One of them was Sai-Si, a renowned beauty in ancient China. She bewitched the emperor into neglecting his duties and caused him to lose his kingdom. I should have guessed that men would see her in the food they ate every day.
As the day wore on, I continued to learn about the business. More and more I became convinced that a person dealing in rice would never starve. Rice was the staple in this part of the world. Because of that, the Hong Kong government kept the market under strict control. The British were afraid that given free rein, the communists in China would take over the supply. Peking could use such a monopoly to blackmail Hong Kong. The British therefore took pains to diversify the sources. Thailand became a key supplier, and Southeast Asia Trading was one of the government-appointed importers. Every year we received a quota on the amount of rice we could bring into Hong Kong. In other words, our market share was guaranteed. Absolutely nothing could go wrong. A consignment of rice would arrive, and on Wednesdays distributors would come to our office to make bids. Hok-Ching never had to worry about marketing. The growing population’s appetite for rice was insatiable, and our shipments were always auctioned within a week. If ever there were a risk-free business, this was it. For my risk-averse husband, this was an occupation tailor-made for him. I could only congratulate myself for making the right move at the right time and place.
*
After several days of training, my manager gave me an assignment. It was to prepare a check for him to sign. In my best penmanship I wrote a check for one thousand, five hundred and some odd dollars. I reviewed it several times, making sure the name of the payee was spelled correctly and the sum was accurate to the last cent. Proudly, I walked it over for Hok-Ching to sign.
He took one look at it and tore it up. "The gaps between the figures are too big," he said. "Anyone can add a zero here and there. Go do it over again."
His imperious manner stung me. I glanced at Mr. Ng, who was studying a document with deep concentration. Unless he was deaf, he must have heard my husband upbraid me. I felt terribly ashamed, like a schoolchild receiving punishment in front of the class.
I went back to my desk and started over. This time I was nervous. Holding my pen in a tight grip, I carved out the numbers so that the next one touched the last. When it was done, I put myself in the shoes of a criminal and explored the possibility of every dash and comma. Dozens of opportunities for fraud showed up. I thought of redoing it again, but stopped myself before I went crazy.
With trepidation I handed my assignment to the boss. He signaled me to leave it in his mail basket. I went back to my desk and waited. After a while he picked up the check and stared at it for a long time. I thought for sure he was going to find fault with it again, but all he did was send the check back to the basket. Several minutes later, he picked up the check again. Back and forth it went many times.
While observing him, I noticed a few quirks in my husband’s work style. For instance, he couldn’t function when he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth. All day long, he used the butt of one to light another. One time when his cigarette burned to the filter while he was on the phone, he became very agitated. His words came out in stutters, and his face yellowed to the color of an overripe cucumber. He rushed to light a new cigarette, but his hands were shaking so much that the flame and cigarette couldn’t meet. By chance, the two finally touched. He sucked in a long breath and a calm settled through the length of his body. It was only then that he could carry on the conversation with his caller.
I’d known that he was an anxious person, but I never knew the extent until I saw him at work. Aside from the chain smoking, he was also constantly rubbing Tiger Balm on his forehead. The smell of menthol filled his office and spilled over into mine. Sometimes I felt I had a headache even wh
en I didn’t. Watching his behavior, I began to understand why he was so stressed. His habit of locking up every piece of paper, for instance, was a self-imposed burden. There was a lock on every cabinet, in addition to padlocks on the special drawers. Every time he needed a file, he would pull the jangling bundle of keys from his pocket, unlock the cabinet, take out the file, and immediately lock the cabinet again. To make sure that it was truly locked, he would jiggle the drawers, one after another, all the way down the column. Sometimes he would walk away, turn around abruptly, and go through the jiggling again.
In mid-afternoon, after scrutinizing my check for the umpteenth time, he picked up his pen and scratched out his signature. At long last! Any time now, the floor would squeak under his flat-footed gait. I waited and waited, but nothing happened. Peeking over, I saw him hold up the check against the light. His eyes were focused on the lower right-hand corner, where his signature was. That was when I realized that he trusted no one, least of all himself.
Mr. Ng raised a question. A discussion ensued. My husband was mumbling most of the time, but suddenly he barked, "Tell Old Mok to get up here!" The growl in the back of his throat was foreboding. Before long, I could feel the whole office shake under the heavy tread of Old Mok, the accountant. First his thin mop of gray hair appeared, then a pair of bifocals. He looked my way once, but I wasn’t sure he saw me. He was trembling as if he were marching toward the guillotine.
I knew the scene was going to be bloody, yet nothing could prepare me for the ferocity of my husband’s attack. Foaming at the mouth, snarling and snapping, he attacked the accountant until the unfortunate man had no dignity left. Poor Old Mok stood like a rag doll, totally defenseless. Mr. Ng had buried his head in a drawer, looking for something he would probably find once the ugly scene was over. I got up and went to the bathroom. That was the least I could do to leave the poor accountant a scrap of dignity.
Old Mok was gone by the time I got back. I sat there for a while, feeling revulsion for my husband. I wanted to cry for the old man. No matter what mistake he’d made, he didn’t deserve such treatment. A frightening thought came to me. Could Hok-Ching be as ruthless to me as he had been to the accountant? What he’d done to Old Mok was unconscionable. For a Chinese, the loss of face can be cause for suicide or murder. Hok-Ching should have known that. Perhaps he thought that underlings didn’t have much dignity to start with. But I wasn’t his underling, I reminded myself. I was his wife, as well as a shareholder of the company. He could belittle me by taking me to task over the simplest chore, but it was impossible that he should ridicule me the way he ridiculed Old Mok. Impossible.
*
In the days that followed, my manager continued to disparage me. Every check I wrote had to be scrutinized under a magnifying glass. Every cent I collected had to be subjected to his counting and recounting. Everything I did had to be done over by him. He was both manager and cashier. I felt I was sitting in the office every day just to collect a salary. I hated to imagine what the other officers of the company thought of me.
To prove that I was more useful than a vase of flowers, I opened my mouth to express an opinion at one company meeting. The subject was what to do with the month’s commissions, which were paid by buyers at every transaction. Usually, this pool of money was split among the twenty-odd staff as bonus. That month, however, it totaled only $50.
"It’s not worth dividing such a small amount," I said. "Why don’t we keep it in the cash box and add it to the pot for next month?"
Six of the administrators nodded. The last, my husband, said, "What are you hogging the money for? What are you going to do with it? Even if you take it to the bank, you can’t earn much interest in a month. You’re being very greedy. Think a little of me. How am I going to account for the missing bonus? You want to get me into trouble? If the staff complained to the Bangkok office, there could be an investigation into my conduct. I can even be put in jail for embezzlement. You look like you have the head of a human, but inside is the brain of a pig!"
Had he stopped there, I would have swallowed his insult as I had many times before. But he went on and on, dealing me blow after blow right in front of my colleagues. Their eyes darted back and forth, looking for a hole they could crawl into. Yet they weren’t the ones whose dignity was being battered to pieces. To witness such brutality was mortifying enough; to suffer it was worse than dying.
The collar of my cheongsam was choking me. I wanted to unbutton it, but not in front of the men. Before I knew it, I was flying down the staircase, out on the street, and straight into traffic. Brakes screeched, horns blared, and drivers yelled curses at me. I went on dashing across the street. A tram stopped and I jumped on board. When my senses returned after three or four stops, I found myself clutching a pole shared by several hands. Where the tram had come from and where it was going were unknown to me. All I knew was that I had to get away from my husband, perhaps for a few days, perhaps longer.
Where could I hide out? The first place that came to mind was Anna’s apartment. The thought of my best friend made my stomach curdle with envy. She could do anything she wanted whenever she wanted. She never had to suffer abuse from a husband or feel the weight of five children hanging around her neck. If only I’d stayed single as she did!
Anna’s apartment was hopping with people when I got there. Two tables of mahjong were clattering away. My visit took Anna by surprise, but good friend that she was, she vacated her seat for me and insisted that I join in the game. No sooner had I spread my hands over the tiles than the phone rang. I heard Anna shout over the clickety clack, "Oh yes, she’s here. Why don’t you come over for dinner?"
Hok-Ching had guessed where I’d gone. A while later he showed up, smiley-faced and charming everyone with his gentlemanly manners. Acquaintances often said I was lucky to have such a nice man for a husband. My reply was always an ambivalent chuckle. If they only knew the half of it! One of Mother’s friends had the same illusion when she first met Hok-Ching, but after she got to see more of him, she wondered why I had to marry such a grumpy fellow. Ever since then she’d nicknamed him Grumpy.
Whether or not Anna knew what was going on, she went along with our charade. At dinner, Hok-Ching seated me next to him. Not wanting to flaunt my personal problems in public, I complied. It was an awkward dinner, with half of me engaged in cheerful small talk, and the other half agonizing over what to do when the evening was over. Then the moment of truth came. After the fruits and tea, Hok-Ching went up to Anna and begged to be excused from another round of mahjong. The next day was a workday, so he and Flora had better turn in early. Anna looked at me, beaming and saying how good of me to drop in. When no one else was looking, she flashed me a piercing glance. It was her way of telling me that she hadn’t been fooled for a second. I smiled, thanked her for her hospitality, and went home with my husband.
Such incidents were repeated over and over again. I twice bought a ticket to Singapore, only to cancel it after my anger had cooled. Every time I thought of leaving, my heart would ache for my children and I wouldn’t be able to carry out my plan. Hok-Ching deserved to be tormented—let him think that I’d gone somewhere and killed myself—however, to put the children through such an ordeal could give them nightmares for years to come. It was a good idea, though, to fly away without telling anyone. Brother Yung’s home in Singapore was my first choice for refuge because there were no swarms of curious cousins there. For that reason Thailand was out. Besides, Hok-Ching might think I was running to the mother company to tattle on him. Already he was resenting his dependence on my family. Ever since we left China, he’d had to rely on in-laws for his livelihood—first Brother Kin, and now Uncle Ben. The dependence was giving him an inferiority complex, and he was always imagining that people were laughing at him for "eating soft rice," the kind that toothless men ate.
The more inferior he felt, the harder he worked at trampling me. I seriously considered leaving the company, but again, the money was too good to give up. A
lthough my salary was only $800 a month, the total take-home pay including commissions amounted to around $1,300. I could never find a teaching job that paid me that much. The children were growing up, and their needs were becoming expensive to satisfy. To deny them in any way would cause me more anguish than they. Having suffered deprivation in my childhood, I was familiar with the damages it could do to a child’s heart.
I could have left my husband, but the word "divorce" wasn’t part of my vocabulary. As a Chinese and a Catholic, the thought was unthinkable. Ironically, the person who introduced it to me was Baba. On one of my visits to Taipei he said to me, "Flora, I’m very grateful to you for not divorcing my son. You’re the only person in the world who can live with him for so long. I know, because I’m his father."
But where could a divorced woman with five children go? How could I live? I would have to move in with Brother Kin and become his dependent. The roof over my head wouldn’t be my own. My children would have the status of orphans living off a wealthy relative. They would become sickly and depressed, like the heroine in Dream of the Red Chamber. No, I couldn’t subject them to such misery. A much simpler solution would be to plug my ears to my husband’s bark. I would create a soundproof room where I could laugh at him while he howled till the veins in his temples stood out.
2
For the first time in my life, I had a savings account that was building up steadily. When it reached $60,000, I recognized it for what it was—the foundation for my family’s future. It was a substantial amount, but still only a base to build on. The walls, floors, and ceiling had yet to be constructed. At the rate of two percent interest, however, the completion of my house would take too long. Could there be ways to speed up the process? Realizing how important this question was, I set out on a quest for an answer.
