by Amy Tan
His twentieth letter, which came two weeks ago, repeated much of what he had told me in Shanghai. But this time, he confessed something else:
I once said that our names were connected by fate: Lucia, Lu Shing. Our names were the sign we would recognize each other and a painting made us feel we belonged together. I still believe you are part of me. But, by the many ways I failed you, you showed me who I truly am. You did not remove my doubts. You forced me to see how I waver. You wanted a profundity of spirit; you did not realize there was nothing more of me to give. You live in deep ponds. I float in the shallows. I fear that this will always be as true of my art as it is of my character. Finally, at this point in my life, I can be rid of doubts by accepting that I am less than what I had hoped to be, far less than who you believed I was. I am mediocre, Lucia. I was not stinting with you. I was born with an impoverished heart. I regret that you were so wounded by my shortfalls.
I wrote back:
The baby I lost was two days old and his name was Teddy. I did not know him beyond those hours that I held him. After so many fruitless years searching for him, I finally recognize that the baby I was desperate to find does not exist. Lu Shen is not that baby. He is your son, completely yours, just as Violet is mine, completely mine. She is the only child I lost. She is the only one I grieve and will spend fruitless years searching for, even though she is dead.
CHAPTER 15
THE CITY AT THE END OF THE SEA
Between Buddha’s Hand and Shanghai
June 1926
Violet
Charm had said that when we reached the top of Buddha’s Hand, we would see the town below. We did not. I looked at Magic Gourd and Pomelo. They were biting their lips. We wound our way down, and continued along the small valley, and held tight on to stubborn hope, and saw nothing until we were at the very end of the green grass and stood on the ridge. Above, I saw through my tears the stars, ten thousand sparkles against black sky, and then I looked down and saw through those same tears ten thousand more sparkles. I pushed past doubt and told myself that it was not a bowl of stars in a pond, nor a cloud of fireflies, nor leaves flashing in silvery moonlight. I wiped away the tears and I saw what I wanted to believe. A town, and ten thousand lights glowing through windows.
We shouted to each other: “I knew it would be there!” “I could feel it!” “I saw it in my mind’s eye and made it true.”
The stars and moon lit our way along the winding path. In our excitement, Magic Gourd and I were at first unaware that Pomelo was stumbling behind on her swollen feet. We went back and each of us put an arm over our shoulders and joy so lifted our spirits we floated down, all weight removed.
As we drew closer to the town, I breathed deeply and filled my lungs with the fresh air, confident that whatever we found would be everything we did not have the day before. I once expected the worst and now I expected the best: a clean place to stay, a warm bath, hot tea, and a sweet pear. I pictured a river, the way back to Shanghai. None of those expectations was too much to wish for.
Pomelo insisted we find her friend Charm, who had escaped the year before. We wanted her to see she had saved us.
We summoned two rickshaws to take us to the House of Charm. Magic Gourd and I sat in one, and Pomelo had the second one to herself. She groaned and put her feet up, then sighed deeply. Within ten minutes, we reached the House of Charm, and saw that it was not extravagant, but it had a classic elegance, well suited to a modest town. When the manservant announced us, Charm must have jumped out of bed in two seconds. She rushed toward us in her nightgown, grabbed Pomelo, stared at her face, and shook her.
“You are not a ghost,” she cried. “Wasn’t I right? That bastard lied to us. There was a path.”
“Perpetual is dead,” Pomelo said simply.
Charm stepped back.” Wah? Are you sure?”
”As certain as can be. We saw his body and face. But now my feet hurt too much to tell you more.”
Charm told the maid to take Pomelo to her own room and unwrap her bindings. She ordered warm water and herbs to clean her feet and draw out the swelling. We were shown to our rooms, beautiful boudoirs. A maid filled the bathtub with water hot enough to peel off rough layers of skin and make me soft again. As soon as I arose from my bath, another maid wrapped me in towels. I slipped into a loose jacket and trousers. Yet another maid set tea and snacks on a table. I ate greedily like the poor peasant I had become. And as soon as I drained the teacup, I lay down and did not wake up until late morning.
We sat around the breakfast table and Pomelo said we were so carefree she hardly recognized us. But whenever I cursed Perpetual, I flinched, expecting to be slapped or knocked to the ground. Fear had become a habit, and I knew it would take a while longer to be rid of it.
We spent much of the day resting our aching muscles. As two maids on each side of us massaged our legs, we took turns recounting once again all the ways we had helped each other. We had shared fear, and all three of us had lived to recall it. That was enough to make us sisters the rest of our lives. We let Pomelo reveal in her own way how Perpetual had died. In the telling, she must have seen it vividly in her mind. Her face became tight as she described climbing over rocks with feet that felt as if she were walking over coals. It nearly blinded her with agony. The sun would not stop pouring out oven-hot heat. The tigers had lain in wait in the dark forest, and she had jumped at every sound.
She now reached toward us and squeezed our arms. “They showed kindness more than a sister would have given. They could have chosen to save themselves instead of risking their lives to help me.” We were humble and told her we were bored hearing about ourselves. Finally, she reached the moment when Perpetual was on the path just below her. She trembled and grabbed onto me, and looked down at the floor. We could see she was there again, on the rocky path. Her eyes bulged, her face contorted, and she gasped and huffed, unable to speak for a while. She pushed both hands out suddenly and set those imaginary rocks bouncing and flying, a dozen, she said, but only one was needed.
“I often wished he would die,” she moaned. “I thought of killing him. But if I had known … what I would see, his eyes, his knowledge of what was coming, horror too great to imagine until I saw him lying twisted like tree roots, his face a red stump … asking myself: Did I do that? How could I have done that? Now I will forever see him without his face. Damn him.” She angrily wiped away a tear. “I hate him for making me kill him. He made me inhuman.”
Later in the day we spoke of those times when Perpetual tricked us. We all denied that we had loved him. We had been deluded into thinking so. We compared the poems, the promises, the gifts, and the stories of his family. Wah! He said that to you as well? We sifted through his fakery to find those pieces that might have been true. Had there been anything good?
“The bad poems were his,” Magic Gourd said. “Why would he have stolen ones that were that awful?”
Charm spoke up: “Something was wrong with his mind, and it must have started when his father was disgraced.”
“I refuse to feel sorry for him,” Magic Gourd said. “His past does not excuse him. It is simply his past.”
I did not forgive Perpetual. But I knew that feeling of being betrayed by lies you had believed in. It was like a crack in the wall behind you that widened without your knowing it until the entire house collapsed on top of you.
AT FIRST GLANCE, you might think the town of Mountain View was no prettier than Moon Pond in its setting by a mountain. But once you walked into town you saw lively people, clear water, and clean roads. Moon Pond had been a trick of the eye, beautiful from a distance, but once you were trapped inside, you discovered the pond was a swamp, the houses were crumbling, and the people were beaten down and had become suspicious and mean.
Pomelo decided to stay in Mountain View. With her share of the money, she would buy into Charm’s business. The town was growing, and so was competition among the courtesan houses. “Come visit,” Pomelo said. And Magic Gour
d said, “You come visit us in Shanghai when you are hungry for fresh fish from the sea.”
Magic Gourd and I were given clean simple dresses, and Charm explained: “These are so that people in Shanghai won’t think you came from where you just came from.” We took a carriage to the next town ten miles away. It was called Eight Bridges, named for the number of bridges that crossed the river, which was wide and deep enough for passenger boats. On this side of Heaven Mountain, Charm said, there were roadways, riverways, and trains when you drew closer to Shanghai. On Moon Pond’s side of Heaven Mountain, you were stuck in the worst parts of the past.
“To reach so much misery in Moon Pond,” Magic Gourd said, “we had to suffer to get there as well.” We reached another port, ate the local dishes of hot peppers and river fish, and stayed the night. We hired a car and drove to another river town and took another boat. The closer we drew to Shanghai, the larger the boats, the better the inns and food. No more mule carts, mud, and foul-mouthed carters. Two weeks from when we left Charm and Pomelo in Mountain View, we reached the train station in Hangzhou. We changed into our clean clothes, examined each other’s faces, and groaned that there was no hiding the fact that one year had turned our skin ten years older.
On the way into Shanghai, Magic Gourd said we should open our own house. She gabbed about the style of furnishings and the distinguishing characteristics, which would quickly build the reputation of the House of Magic Gourd.
I had my own plans, and it would begin with a visit to Loyalty Fang—this time to ask, not for a favor, but for a job.
October 1926
I did not go to his home. I walked into his office at the company building. He was seated at his desk and was stunned. “Are you a ghost?” We had not seen each other in a year and I viewed him through different eyes. He was now in his middle years, still handsome, and, in fact, more attractive because his face had the lines of maturity and character. Or so I thought.
He grinned. “I’ve missed you.” He stood and was about to come around his desk to greet me in the usual way—a kiss, a pat on the rump, and a deep inhalation of my scent, as if he and I were dogs.
“Don’t be polite,” I said, and sat down. “We’re old friends.”
He nodded. “I forgot. You’re married. So how is marriage to that yokel from the countryside. Have you tired yet of mountain clouds and waterfalls?”
“Perpetual is dead.”
His smirk vanished. “I apologize.”
I would not show Loyalty my true emotions. “The marriage was over before he died. And now I’m back, starting over.”
He called for tea. It was served in the porcelain teacups and saucers his company made. “You look fetching. The countryside and fresh air agreed with you, I see.”
“Liar. I aged ten years in that miserable place.” We had often bantered with each other. But his teasing was more wounding than humorous. I knew I was not attractive in the way he was accustomed to seeing me—certainly not stylish—and intentionally so. I had chosen a dull blue Chinese dress and a gray sweater. My hair was pulled into a plain bun. I wanted no misunderstanding over what I was asking. I was not dressed for seduction.
“I need a job,” I said.
“Of course I’ll help. This evening, I’ll make a list of the houses that are doing well, and tell you more about each one. Then you can choose which ones might suit you, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“At the House of Aged Courtesans? I’m twenty-eight, not some naive child with future heartbreak ahead of me. I’m not seeking to go back to an unprofitable life. I want a job here, with your company.”
His eyebrows rose. “What’s this?” He laughed slightly.
I remained calm. “You know I have valuable skills other than my talent for wheedling gifts from your pocket. I understand the world of business. I grew up in it. I listened to businessmen having dinner together at the courtesan house. In fact, I gave my opinions at a dinner party you hosted, when we first met. And, as you know, I speak English, Shanghainese, and Mandarin, one as well as the other.”
Loyalty looked as if he was amused. “What do you propose? Do you want to become vice president?”
“I want a position in the company as a translator with your foreign trade business. I don’t merely translate words, unlike those translators who went to English language school. I’ve heard my share of them at Hidden Jade Path. They make mistakes so often you could find yourself buying a donkey instead of a company. I do not translate like a bad dictionary. I can express subtlety in negotiations. That’s one thing I learned from my mother. If I do well and am qualified for other jobs, you can promote me. If I do not meet those expectations, you can demote me to some dull position. Or you can fire me. Or I can quit.”
He grew serious. “Years ago, I said you were surprising, and this was what fascinated me about you. Now you are even more surprising. I am indeed intrigued with the possibility of your working for my company. However, I can’t give you a job simply because I know you from quite a different business. You’re a woman, and none of my customers would trust what you are translating.”
“Put me in a room without windows and have me translate letters and documents, your advertisements and signs, which, by the way, are full of mistakes that you would find embarrassing if you knew what they were. If you had been a better pupil of English, you would know how qualified I am.”
“You’re asking me to be your boss—and you’re already nagging me before you even get the job? All right, but you’ll have to prove yourself. You can’t rely on my fondness for you.”
“When have I ever relied on that? I’ll prove on my own that I’m more than worthy of the job and I’m counting on proving this in an office, seated on chairs, and not in your bed. I have put that part of my life away forever.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, Loyalty pronounced me accurate and indispensable. Besides my work with his correspondence and documents, I had suggested he give his company an English name and not just one written in Chinese and rendered into Western script as Jing Huang Mao. “No American can pronounce that, so how could they remember it?” I suggested its English translation: Golden Phoenix Trading. I had a sign and business cards made. He gave me a full-time position.
Now that I was sure of having a job, it was time to fulfill the promise I had made to myself, my reason to live, which had enabled me to endure being trapped in Moon Pond. I wanted to find Flora and to know that she was well. And I also needed to reach my mother. After Flora had been taken, I finally read the letter Lu Shing had written me about her—about her grief that she had been tricked and that I had died as a result. He promised that he would not tell my mother that I was alive, nothing about me, unless I gave him permission to do so. If he had kept his word, then she would still believe I was dead. I had always viewed her leaving me from only the perspective of an aggrieved child. She never should have left. She never should have believed I was dead. But my grief over losing Flora had gradually changed me. I saw Flora through a mother’s eyes. I now saw my mother with the same. We feared that our daughters would believe they were unloved and deliberately abandoned. Flora might not remember anything about me, except that I had let go of her arms. I wanted Flora to know and feel that she had always been loved. I was ready to tell my mother that I knew she had loved me. I did not hate her as I had before.
Yet I could not forgive her for what had happened. She had been tricked, yes, but it started with her desires. I bore the consequences, and it was not just suffering of the heart. What was forgiveness anyway? Cleansing her of guilt? Giving myself the reward of heaven? What godlike power would enable me to gladly make her whole, while knowing I would never be? I wished I could forgive her and release the pain in me. But part of my heart was missing—where forgiveness and trust had once been. It was empty and there was nothing left to give.
“I want your help in reaching Lu Shing,” I told Loyalty. “He’ll know the address of both the Ivory family in New York and the address of my
mother in San Francisco.”
“I can probably get the address from the Ivory Shipping Company,” Loyalty said.
“I don’t want to raise suspicions. They would tell the Ivorys you went seeking their address, and they would send their spies to learn why. In any case, I want Lu Shing to understand Flora’s importance to me. He is her grandfather. He has to take responsibility. Once you have the Ivory family address, we will send them a letter from you, which I will write, of course. This letter will explain you were a good friend of Edward’s from the days when you did business with the Ivory Shipping Company. We’ll say that you spent much time together during his first year in Shanghai—that was before he knew me. We’ll tell them you have something that belonged to Edward, which you had borrowed—some cuff links, which I will buy. You will then say you kept them when you heard that he had died and, at the time, you did not know who you could return them to. That will make them think you did not know me. It wasn’t until recently that you heard he had a child living in New York, and so you want to send Edward’s daughter the cuff links to cherish as a keepsake. The package will arrive before Christmas, and it will include a gift from you—a charm bracelet perhaps—a Christmas gift from Uncle Loyalty. Yes, you’ll be an uncle! You’ll say you’re following the Chinese custom of being an uncle to any child of good friends. A family like the Ivorys would show good manners and have Flora write you a thank-you letter. And then, every year, Uncle Loyalty has an excuse to send her a Christmas card and a little gift. When Flora sends you those thank-you notes, I will have this little part of her as my own keepsake.”
“This is a very good plan,” he said. “I like being an uncle. I know why you want to reach your daughter, but why also your mother? You once told me you hated her.”
“I once hated you.”
