The Last Rose of Shanghai(85)

“Come in.”

In a white suit and a white panama hat, Cheng glided close to my bed, bringing blades of sunlight around him. He looked decorated, strong, and sophisticated as usual, but his voice sounded like he was choked. “What happened to you, Aiyi?”

I leaned on him. I was not asking for anything, not his sympathy or forgiveness, only a shoulder to cry on. It was such a comfort to smell his familiar cigarette scent, to know someone still cared if I wanted rice with chicken. I told him everything.

His fingers touched my cheek. His voice was surprisingly warm, surprisingly firm. “I know things didn’t work out with us. You have gone through a lot. I still want to take care of you, Aiyi, even if . . .”

For a man who couldn’t bear to see me walk in front of other men without a bra, it meant a lot.



Two days later, I married Cheng.

It was the eighteenth day of January. Life was strange. Since childhood, I was told I would marry Cheng. We had fought, played with crickets in the courtyard, and taken English lessons from our tutor while our parents chatted and drank jasmine tea in the family room. We were the Qing Mei Zhu Ma, blue plum and bamboo horse, loving friends from childhood and a destined couple-to-be.

Mother had told me repeatedly of my wedding day since I was little. It would be beautiful and beautifully fitting for a woman of my birth. A jade leaf growing on a gold branch.

I would put on white powder and bright-red lipstick to accentuate my beauty; I would step out of my room, my hair elaborately adorned by a thousand jewels, my neck decorated with at least three thick gold necklaces. A traditional red silk veil would drape over my head, and my fingers, glowing with a dozen gold rings, would lift the hem of a long dress for an easier walk. With each step, the bells, beads, and tassels on the veil would clink and peal, a melody of happiness and fortune. Someone, likely my maid, would give me a hand to guide me down the pebbled path to the central room, the courtyard, and then the fountain near the gate where a red palanquin would await with four lifters whom Mother had hired. As I came close, the musicians would play the lute, cymbals, drums, and French horn, and the fireworks would crack loudly; the throngs of family and relatives, all clad in festive red, would clap their hands, and the gate of my home would swing open, the red lanterns bouncing, and Cheng would take my hand.

But in reality, I was too poor to wear jewelry. I was not beautiful either. My face was swollen, my lips pale, and my waist was soft like a fish belly. None of the dresses fitted me, so in an old gray tunic, I made my way out of the house without furniture, to the empty courtyard without servants. I looked like a woman on the way to buy fish at the market.

Holding a red silk veil, I started to cross the courtyard. It was quiet there, the ground still wet from yesterday’s rain. No sight of musicians, or fireworks, or palanquin, or Sinmay, or relatives. Peiyu and her children were still sleeping. Near the fountain was Cheng’s Buick.

I stumbled, short of breath, nervous. But I shouldn’t be. Cheng would be a good husband. We would have as many children as his mother wanted, and we would live in his vast mansion with horses, birds, and gardens. I could play mah-jongg, rise up late in the afternoon, and scold the servants whenever I was bored.

I put the red veil over my head. The world changed. The air wavered like a red screen, and the puddle near my feet roiled like Sassoon’s cocktail. Yet my breath caught in my throat, and my heart thudded. Beyond the fringe of the redness, beyond the fountain, beyond the stone lions stood Ernest, dressed in a traditional red Chinese wedding tunic, a large red bow across his chest. His curly hair was shaped like a precious crown, his smile glistening like sweet honey, his eyes shining like a promise.

No more.

I took Cheng’s hand.





69


FALL 1980


THE PEACE HOTEL

Ms. Sorebi holds two pages together like a prayer book and carefully slips her index finger through. She’s been silent for a long moment since I finished recounting my story.

I’m ready for her questions, but I’m nervous. The dishes arrive, saving me. Garlic prawns seasoned with pepper. Stewed hen with ginseng and dates. Sauteed broccoli with slices of almonds. Deep-fried fish with red chili sauce. Eight kinds of exotic mushroom cooked in a clay pot. Marinated chicken breast. Shrimp dumplings in translucent tapioca flour. No chicken feet that’ll freak her out or whole fish with a head or bones that would have choked her.

Food is a safe topic. I pick up the chopsticks and urge her to eat. “Do you know how to use chopsticks?”

She nods; those headlights in fog avoid me.

I’m worried. “Ms. Sorebi? How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Born in 1945, I see. Do you have children?”

“Yes, I have a son. Ben. He’s nine.”

“Do you have a picture? May I take a look?”

“I don’t want to bore you, Ms. Shao.”

“Don’t disappoint an old woman, I beg you. I love children. My niece does everything I tell her, except she refuses to get married and have children.”

Ms. Sorebi takes out a photo from her wallet. “This was taken last summer in Texas.”

Ben is splashing in a kiddie pool, wearing a blue bathing suit printed with sharks. “He’s adorable. What’s his favorite sport—swimming? Football?” I give the photo back to her.