The Last Rose of Shanghai(58)

And she had arranged my marriage with Cheng for the same reason—so I wouldn’t be poor, so I would always be looked after.

What had I done?

It would never work out with Ernest—a foreigner, a pianist, a poor man. He wouldn’t be able to give me a decent home, decent social standing, or decent food. We would always live in scorn, in hostility, in danger.

What should I do now?

I went to the moon-shaped bamboo shelf and took out the small brass brazier and the porcelain pot that stored aloeswood chips, a gift from my third brother before he left behind his share of inheritance to live a life of solitude in the Jing’an Temple. My third brother and Mother were both Buddhists and often meditated with the aloeswood chips.

I scooped out some chips from the pot and added them to the brazier engraved with coiling dragons. Sitting in lotus position, I lit the match and tossed it into the brazier. A blue seed of flame flickered from beneath the chips; a stem of pale smoke sprouted, grew plumper like a fruit, filled to the brim of the brazier, and then bloomed into the air. A smoky gown enveloped me.

I sat still, transfixed by the drifting smoke, the veins of air. I thought of my childhood days, happy days, the sound of runes Mother had mouthed, and the circle of life she believed in as the pale plume swiveled, growing, shifting, transforming into a grand dance hall filled with animated figures, and then it lengthened to form the mah-jongg tiles, the silk ties, the familiar world of courtyards, a world without ghosts, doubts, or fears.

Really, the best life was the safest.

I felt a lightness on my shoulders, like long hair had been snipped off. I got up, washed my face, picked out a blue dress, and went to Cheng’s home.



He lived in a compound similar to mine, with high walls and a wide wooden gate. Inside the compound were willows, pines, and some dwarf bushes I couldn’t name. Nature, flowers, and plants were not a fancy of mine, and birds and animals were a great pleasure of Cheng’s. Another difference between us.

I wondered what he would say. He hadn’t asked me to sit on his lap since I’d refused, and we hadn’t talked that much since then. Would he back out of the wedding?

He was in his game room decorated with horses and roosters. The room was cold, but he wore a burgundy velvet smoking robe with a wide black collar that barely covered him, exposing his muscular arms and chest. He held a stick, feeding a rosefinch in a bamboo cage. The cigarette smoke wafted from his fingers to the bird as it shambled from one bamboo slat to another like a drunkard.

“It doesn’t seem that he likes the smoke,” I said.

“He’ll be fine.” He sat on a bamboo lounge covered with a plum silk pongee cushion and propped up one leg. He had big feet, which his mother praised as a good sign since he would be sure-footed, but it also meant he had to have all his brogues custom made.

He had many admirers, or mistresses as I would call them. One was a general’s daughter, another a popular singer and actress; some were much older than him. He never told me about any of his female admirers, but I had my ways with Ying, whose mouth became loose when he wanted to borrow money from me. Women loved Cheng, Ying had said with apparent envy.

Cheng studied my dress.

I had deliberately put on the Chinese bra. No more criticism should come.

“Shouldn’t you wear another layer?”

I grimaced. “They sealed up my club.” I stared at a tuft of rose-hued feathers on the bird’s head. The sentence felt like a blade; each time I said it, it carved deeper into my skin.

“You brought this on yourself. I’ve warned you.”

“I thought you should know in case you have second thoughts about the wedding.”

He smoked. A speck of ash fell on his velvet trousers. “What are you talking about? It’s our wedding.”

“Maybe you want to tell your mother about this.”

He cocked his head; the arrogant side of him seemed to say it was his decision, but he was always his mother’s boy. He threw the cigarette, stamped on it, and called a servant.

Her arms held by two maidservants, his mother, my aunt, came over, wobbling on her tiny feet. I’d never liked her, and she’d never liked me. She was the type of woman who believed her boy deserved a wife who was no less than a saint. A critical woman, she tended to see other people’s flaws and said many negative things about me. I suspected she had regretted the lopsided nature of the marriage deal since the loss of my family’s fortune. Now she would have the perfect excuse.

I bowed. “Good afternoon, Aunt.”

“Aiyi, Peiyu said you hired a white pianist. Is it true? You should have told me. What are you doing here? What’s going on with your club? What else is wrong?”

Cheng cleared his throat. “Ma, Aiyi’s club was sealed. It’s not a big deal, I say. I was just telling her about our wedding.”

“Sealed! Wa, wa, wa. How horrific! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I just sent out the invitations.”

“Ma,” Cheng said.

She sighed. “You’re so young and naive, my son. We’re a family of honor and esteem. We keep our word. But the world has changed. No one has decency anymore. Awful weather, just awful! Nothing is going well these days.” She turned around and left.

In silence, I sat on a wicker chair next to Cheng. My face burned with humiliation—my aunt always knew how to have the upper hand. Yet I would learn to tolerate her, and I could imagine my life with Cheng as we wedded and bedded, smooth and placid, like a cold winter pond. It was perhaps life’s greatest happiness, for there was safety with Cheng, which I could never have with Ernest.