Lantern Market Street was not far from the Pottery-Glazing District, perhaps a thirty-minute rickshaw ride. But Old Widow Lau was afraid we might accidentally miss our accidental meeting if we did not allow for a few extra minutes to ensure that we arrived on time. “After all,” she fretted aloud, “what if the rickshaw driver is old and lame? What if it begins to rain?”
Sometime after the noon hour, I found myself standing before our family’s ink shop, anxious to see Father. Old Widow Lau was paying the rickshaw driver—or rather, arguing with him that he should not charge us so much for an extra passenger since I was still a small child. “Small child?” the driver said with a huff. “Where are your eyes, old woman?” I stared at the lap of the lilac dress I had borrowed, patted the neatly knotted bun at the back of my head. I was embarrassed but also proud that the driver thought I was a grown-up woman.
Almost every door on the street led to a shop, and flanking each door were red banners with good-luck couplets. The couplet by our family’s shop was particularly fine. It had been written in a cursive style, the one Precious Auntie was teaching me to copy. The manner was more like a painting than writing, very expressive, running down like cloud-swept branches. You could tell that whoever had written this was an artist, cultured and deserving of respect. Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that this calligraphy must have been Precious Auntie’s.
At last, Old Widow Lau was done haggling with the driver and we stepped inside Father’s shop. It was north-facing, quite dim inside, and perhaps this was why Father did not see us at first. He was busy with a customer, a man who was distinguished-looking, like the scholars of two decades before. The two men were bent over a glass case, discussing the different qualities of inksticks. Big Uncle welcomed us and invited us to be seated. From his formal tone, I knew he did not recognize who we were. So I called his name in a shy voice. And he squinted at me, then laughed and announced our arrival to Little Uncle, who apologized many times for not rushing over sooner to greet us. They rushed us to be seated at one of two tea tables for customers. Old Widow Lau refused their invitation three times, exclaiming that my father and uncles must be too busy for visitors. She made weak efforts to leave. On the fourth insistence, we finally sat. Then Little Uncle brought us hot tea and sweet oranges, as well as bamboo latticework fans with which to cool ourselves.
I tried to notice everything so I could later tell GaoLing what I had seen, and tease out her envy. The floors of the shop were of dark wood, polished and clean, no dirty footprints, even though this was during the dustiest part of the summer. And along the walls were display cases made of wood and glass. The glass was very shiny and not one pane was broken. Within those glass cases were our silk-wrapped boxes, all our hard work. They looked so much nicer than they had in the ink-making studio at Immortal Heart village.
I saw that Father had opened several of the boxes. He set sticks and cakes and other shapes on a silk cloth covering a glass case that served as a table on which he and the customer leaned. First he pointed to a stick with a top shaped like a fairy boat and said with graceful importance, “Your writing will flow as smoothly as a keel cutting through a glassy lake.” He picked up a bird shape: “Your mind will soar into the clouds of higher thought.” He waved toward a row of ink cakes embellished with designs of peonies and bamboo: “Your ledgers will blossom into abundance while bamboo surrounds your quiet mind.”
As he said this, Precious Auntie came back into my mind. I was remembering how she taught me that everything, even ink, had a purpose and a meaning: Good ink cannot be the quick kind, ready to pour out of a bottle. You can never be an artist if your work comes without effort. That is the problem with modern ink from a bottle. You do not have to think. You simply write what is swimming on the top of your brain. And the top is nothing but pond scum, dead leaves, and mosquito spawn. But when you push an inkstick along an inkstone, you take the first step to cleansing your mind and your heart. You push and you ask yourself, What are my intentions? What is in my heart that matches my mind?
I remembered this, and yet that day in the ink shop, I listened to what Father was saying, and his words became far more important than anything Precious Auntie had thought. “Look here,” Father said to his customer, and I looked. He held up an inkstick and rotated it in the light. “See? It’s the right hue, purple-black, not brown or gray like the cheap brands you might find down the street. And listen to this.” And I heard a sound as clean and pure as a small silver bell. “The high-pitched tone tells you that the soot is very fine, as smooth as the sliding banks of old rivers. And the scent—can you smell the balance of strength and delicacy, the musical notes of the ink’s perfume? Expensive, and everyone who sees you using it will know that it was well worth the high price.”
I was very proud to hear Father speak of our family’s ink this way. I sniffed the hot air. The smell of spices and camphor was very strong.
“This soot,” Father continued, “is far better than Anhui pine. We make it from a kind of tree so rare that it’s now forbidden to chop it down. Luckily, we have a supply felled by lightning, blessed by the gods.” Father asked the customer if he had heard about the ancient human skullcap recently unearthed from the quarry at Dragon Bone Hill. The old scholar nodded. “Well, we’re from the village one hill over,” Father explained. “And the trees in our village are said to be more than a million years old! How do we know? Think about it. When those million-year-old folks roamed the earth around Dragon Bone Hill, didn’t they need trees to sit under? Trees for shade? Trees to make fires? Trees to build stools and tables and beds? Aha, am I right? Well then, we, the people from the village next to Dragon Bone Hill, supplied that need. And now we ‘re the ones who own the remains of those ancestral trees. We call them Immortal Heart wood.”
Father motioned to the shelves. “Now, look here, on this shelf there’s only a pinch per stick, so the cost is less. In this row, two pinches. And in this case, it is almost entirely the soot of Immortal Tree wood. The ink draws easily into the brush, like nectar into a butterfly’s nostril.”
In the end, the customer bought several of the most expensive sticks and left the shop. I wanted to clap, as if I had just seen a play for the gods. And then Father was coming toward us, toward me. I rose from the chair with a leaping heart. I had not seen him since Great-Granny’s funeral more than three months before. I wondered if he would say anything about my more grown-up appearance.
“What! Is it already five o’clock in the evening?” he asked.
This caused Old Widow Lau to jump up and cry, “We’re too early! We should leave and come back later!”
That was how I learned what time we were supposed to come, five o’clock, not one. Old Widow Lau was so upset by this open announcement of her mistake that my father had to insist five times that she be seated again. And then my uncles brought more tea and more oranges, but still everything was awkward.
After a while, Father expressed his care and his concern for me. “You look too thin,” he said. Or perhaps he said I was looking quite plump. Next he asked after the health of my mother, then that of GaoLing and my younger brothers, then that of the various aunts and in-laws. Good, well, fine, I chattered like a duck. Wearing those new clothes, it was hard for me to answer in a. natural way. Finally he asked if I had eaten yet. And although I was hungry enough to faint, I had no chance to answer, for Old Widow Lau was crying: “We’ve eaten, we ‘re full enough to burst! Please don’t let us be any more trouble. Go on with your work.”
“We’re not busy at all,” Father answered out of politeness, “not too busy for family.”
And Old Widow Lau answered even more politely, “Really, we must go… but before we leave, have you heard what happened to… ?” And she started talking nervously of some distant relations. After Old Widow Lau had mentioned at least five or six more relatives, my father set down his teacup and stood up.
“Cousin Lau, where are my manners? I shouldn’t force you to entertain me any longer
. I know you came early so you and my daughter could wander the city streets and become lost in marvelous sights.” He handed me a few coins for sweets and dumplings, warning me I should treat Elder Aunt well and not wear her out. “Take your time,” he told her. “No need to rush back for our sake.”
Old Widow Lau was embarrassed to be dismissed in this clever way. I was overjoyed. And soon we were outside in the festering heat.
Down the lane we found a dumpling stall where we could sit on outdoor benches. As I gobbled down my dumplings, Old Widow Lau complained that the hot dampness was swelling her feet: “Soon they’ll be as soft and useless as rotted bananas.” She was too frugal to take a rickshaw home to Lantern Market Street, only to have to turn around and come back. But she worried aloud that when we returned to the shop at five o’clock, we would have our accidental meeting with someone important, and there we would be, mouths open, tongues out, panting like worm-infested gutter dogs. “Don’t sweat,” she warned me.
We started walking, searching for shade. I listened to Old Widow Lau’s complaints with one ear as I watched people pass us on the streets: Young men who appeared to be students or apprentices. Old Manchu women with heavy bundles. Girls with short modern hairstyles and Western clothes. Everyone walked with purpose, a quick step that was not the style of people back home. Now and then, Old Widow Lau pushed my shoulder and snapped, “Eh! Don’t gawk like you’re an old greasy-hat from the countryside.”
And so we continued our ramble, two streets east, then two streets north, then two streets east again. That was the method my old cousin took to avoid our getting lost. Soon we found ourselves in a park with weeping willows and walkways over a pond covered with floating flowers and twitching larva. Old Widow Lau sat down on a bench under the shade of a tree and began to fan herself vigorously, complaining that she was going to explode like an overbaked yam. In a short while, her jaw dropped onto her chest and she was asleep.
Close by was an open-air pavilion made of dark wood lattice screens and rows of column posts supporting its heavy tiled roof. I went to a corner of the pavilion and squeezed against a post, trying to make myself still and unseen like a lizard. From there, I watched a man mastering his mind over his sword. I saw an old man blowing musical notes out of a metal comb, while the old woman beside him peeled an orange and tried to catch a butterfly that dipped and swooped toward the rind. Down a flight of stairs, a young couple sat by a small pond, pretending to admire ducks while the tips of their fingers secretly touched. There was also a foreigner, although I did not recognize him as such at first, for he was dressed in the clothes of a scholar, a long summer gown and trousers. His eyes were gray like muddy water. Around another pillar, a nursemaid was cooing to a baby, trying to get him to look at her, but the baby was screaming, trying to look back at the foreigner. And thin another man, very elegant in his dress and manners, walked to a tree and parted the curtains of a cage I had not even noticed before. Birds immediately began to sing. I felt that I had entered a world a thousand years old and that I had always been there, but only just now had opened my eyes to see it.
I stayed until the pavilion was nearly empty. And then I heard Old Widow Lau bellowing my name. “You scared my body right out of my skin,” she scolded, and pinched my arm hard.
As we walked back to my father’s shop, I was a different girl. My head was a sandstorm, ideas and hopes whirling about freely. I was wondering all the while what those people at the pavilion would remember the next day and the day after that. Because I knew I would never forget a moment of that day, the day I was to begin my new life.
Just as Old Widow Lau had planned, my prospective mother-in-law accidentally passed by the shop promptly at five o’clock. The woman was younger than Mother. She had a stern countenance and was critical-looking. On her wrists she wore much gold and jade, to show how valuable she was. When Old Widow Lau called to her, she acted puzzled at first, then delighted.
“What luck that we should run into you here,” Old Widow Lau cried in a high voice. “When did you arrive in Peking? . . . Oh, visiting a cousin? How are things back in Immortal Heart?” After we had recovered from our fake surprise, Old Widow Lau introduced the woman to Father and my uncles. I was concentrating so hard on not showing any expression whatsoever that I did not hear the woman’s name.
“This is my cousin’s Eldest Daughter, Liu LuLing,” Old Widow Lau said. “She is fifteen.”
“I’m fourteen,” I corrected, and Old Widow Lau gave me a scolding glance before adding, “Almost fifteen. She is visiting Peking this week. The family lives in Immortal Heart village as well but they sell their ink in Peking. And as you can see,” she said, sweeping her hand out to indicate the shop, “their business is doing not too bad.”
“In part, we have your husband to thank,” Father then said. “We buy much of our excellent wood from him.”
“Really?” Old Widow Lau and the woman said at once. My ears turned toward him, curious now that our family knew this family.
“That’s correct. We get the camphor wood from Mr. Chang,” Father continued. “And he has also supplied us with coffins on less fortunate occasions, and always of the best quality.”
Chang the coffinmaker. As exclamations of more surprise and pleasure rang out, I could imagine Precious Auntie pounding the air with her fists. She would never allow me to marry into this family. And then I reminded myself that this was not her decision to make.
“We, too, are thinking of starting a business in Peking,” Mrs. Chang said.
“Is that so? Perhaps we can help you in some way,” Father said politely.
“We wouldn’t want to trouble you,” Mrs. Chang said.
“No trouble at all,” Father countered.
“You should get together and discuss the possibility,” Old Widow Lau suggested, at just the right moment.
As Mrs. Chang paused to think of the excellence of this idea, Father added: “In any case, I’ve been eager to talk to your husband more about the dragon bones he contributed to the great scientific discovery of Peking Man.”
Mrs. Chang nodded. “We were astonished that those ugly little bones were so valuable. Lucky we didn’t eat them up as medicine.”
I was thinking what it would mean if I married into this rich and famous family. GaoLing would be spitting with envy. Mother would treat me with special fondness. Of course, the Changs probably would not allow Precious Auntie to come as nursemaid to their future grandchildren, especially if she kept spitting and thrashing whenever their name was mentioned.
At the end, it was decided that Old Widow Lau, my father, and I should visit a house in Peking belonging to Chang’s cousin, where we could see some unusual rocks in the garden. This was good news to Old Widow Lau, for it meant that the signs were good that the Changs considered me a prospect. And I was glad, for this meant I could stay longer in Peking.
Two evenings later, we went to the cousin’s house for a Viewing the Moon party. I wore another borrowed dress. I sat quietly and did not eat too much and talked even less. Mr. Chang had come up from Immortal Heart, and he and Father discussed Peking Man.
“All the pieces of the skull must stay in China,” Father said. “That is not only proper, it’s the agreement with the foreigners.”
“Those foreigners,” Chang said, “you can’t trust them to keep their word. They’ll find a way to sneak out some pieces. They’ll find excuses, make new treaties, put up pressure.”
“No treaty can change that Peking Man is a Chinese man and should stay where he lived and died.”
Suddenly Mr. Chang saw me sitting on a garden stool. “Maybe one day you and I can collect more Peking Man together. How would you like that?”
I nodded eagerly.
The next day, I was a contented girl as I rode home. I had never felt such importance. I had not shamed Old Widow Lau or my family. In fact, I had been a great success. My father had criticized me in small ways about unimportant matters. So I knew he was proud of me. Old Widow L
au had bragged to her daughters-in-law that I had looks and manners to warrant ten marriage proposals. She was certain I would receive a marriage offer from the Changs within the week.
Though I had yet to meet the Changs’ fourth son, who was back in Dragon Bone Hill, I knew he was two years older than I was. Like the other sons, he was an apprentice in his father’s coffin-making business. What’s more, there had been talk that he, the youngest son, might expand the coffin-making business to Peking, just as our family had done with the ink business. That meant I would live in Peking.
During all these discussions, I did not ask if my future husband was smart, if he was educated, if he was kind. I did not think about romantic love. I knew nothing of that. But I did know that marriage had to do with whether I improved my station in life or made it worse. And to judge by the Changs’ manners and the jewelry the Chang wife wore, I, too, was about to become a more important person. What could be wrong with that?
Mr. Wei had come before dawn to take me back. The sky was dark and the air was still clear of summer’s rotting smells. In the cart, I began to dream of all the ways I had to change my life. Of course, I needed new clothes right away. And I should be more careful to keep my face out of the sun. I did not want to look like a dark little peasant girl. After all, we were artisans and merchants from an old clan, very respected.
By the time the stars faded and the sun rose, Peking had disappeared from the horizon, and the landscape before me returned to the same dusty dull.
Hours later, the cart climbed the last hill that hid Immortal Heart. I could hear the crowing of cocks, the yowling of dogs, all the familiar sounds of our village.
Mr. Wei started bellowing a peasant love song loud enough to burst his lungs. As we turned the bend, we came upon Sheepherder Wu gathering his flock. The late-afternoon sun sliced through the trees and fell on the backs of the sheep. Wu lifted his stick and called a greeting to Mr. Wei and me. Just then his herd turned in one motion, one direction, like a cloud bringing a storm, and I sensed a great danger. I recalled that Mother had once spoken quietly of this sheepherder’s being a widower, who needed a new wife to help him run the looms for his wool. I could practically feel the graininess of yellow Gobi dust as my fingers picked through the wool. I could smell the lamb stink seeping into my fingers, my bones. And now that I stared at the sheepherder with his grin and his upraised stick, I was even more determined that I should marry the son of the Changs. Perhaps that son would turn out to be a one-eyed idiot. So be it. I would still be daughter-in-law to a famous family who ran a business in Peking.