The Courtesan (3 page)

First Wife remembers kneeling on the flat gray pillow, just as she is kneeling now. Her husband's soft slippers came; he placed his fine hand on her shoulder, and he, too, was weeping. She turned away and knew it was forever; she knew then that she would become what she is now: a demon with an empty mouth for the rest of this miserable life that she has not yet finished living. The eighteen beads of the rosary cannot calm her today. She takes a breath into her demon's body and then another, and she tells herself,
The concubine's child means less than nothing.

This is not the truth; the child means everything. First Wife's gown is damp with sweat from the backs of her thighs, and the sweat is as heavy as blood and as heavy as the fluids of birth, and she wonders in a fleeting way whether the child, alone behind the locked gate, is afraid of the dark. The words to the heart sutra come to her now and suddenly, and she needs them more than ever before.

Go, go, go beyond. Go thoroughly beyond and establish yourself in enlightenment.

She speaks the words aloud. She repeats them over and over, long into the night, and understands impermanence. And when it is morning, First Wife goes in search of scissors and a razor, telling herself,
The child will be punished, but first I must begin to punish myself.

TIME THAT HAS PASSED

Jinhua

A hacking cough in the distance is the night-soil man with the wobbly voice and opium in his throat. Jinhua lies still for a moment in her bed, busy with remembering. She has been waiting for Baba for one whole day and one whole night, calling his name until her voice hurt, waiting to tell him that she has lost her wiggling, jiggling tooth. She is hungry enough to eat the wind, and her eyes are fat from crying. She remembers now that the red gate was stuck shut yesterday for all the day. No one has come to look after her. No one has come.

Outside, birds are twittering,
jijizhazha,
and now their conversation stops and the only noises are the sounds that Jinhua is making. She straightens a leg, shifts a hip tightly wrapped in bedding, and opens her eyes to a blank wall. She is not used to waking up alone. She is not used to putting herself to bed.

Last night when the sky turned black, she tried to think of a story to tell Baba when he comes. One that he has never heard
before about the Monkey King, who is extremely strong and can leap a distance of one hundred and eight thousand
li
in a single somersault, and who has traveled far, far to the west. She will invent a new and special story in which the Monkey King bravely defeats the barbarians in a great battle fought high up in the trees and then sends them and their ships, guns, and opium away from China, back to where they came from. She held the book about the Monkey King's journey in her lap but didn't open it. She lay down and curled herself around it. And then she told herself,
Tomorrow everything will be the way it always has been. Meiling, the maid, will come with breakfast rice and her soft, soft voice that is,
Jinhua thinks,
the way a real mother's voice would be.
And Baba will come too, through the red gate, wearing his blue gown that smells like sweet tobacco and has the word
shou
for “long life” woven into the fabric in more places than Jinhua can count—and she will run to him and Baba will catch her, and she will take his braided queue in her fingers and wrap it around her wrist as many times and as tightly as she can. And—even if the emperor calls for Baba he will—

Tomorrow all will be well,
Jinhua told herself as her eyes fluttered shut and she drifted off to sleep.

So—now it is tomorrow, and the morning light is brown through wooden shutters, and the air smells of nothing. Jinhua turns toward the door. The bedding catches her hips like a belt tightening, and she gasps. The door is open. Someone is here in the room. The person is not Baba. It is not Meiling or any of the other servants. It is someone she does not know. Someone without any hair.

“In a single day all has become empty, and enlightenment is near.” Dark eyes glitter in a silver face, and the words are a chant, and the face belongs to a woman, as thin as a needle, dressed like a nun in dull gray. Jinhua waits.

“Your father was my husband before he loved your mother,” the woman says, and Jinhua sees that it is First Wife, Timu, standing there and saying these words. “And now there is only emptiness without body or feeling or will.” Timu's voice fades in and out, and she is as bald as a mushroom, and Jinhua's tongue explores the hard-edged gap where her tooth is lost. She doesn't move. She is a little afraid, but more than this she is astonished because Timu is talking, saying things out loud even though she has made a vow to never speak and to always be sad, and she made this vow a long, long time ago.

In one hand, Timu is holding something long and white; in the other she has something dark and strange. She begins to move the hand with the strange, dark thing—it is Timu's left hand—and she moves it very slowly. “Look,” Timu says. “This is emptiness.” Her prayer beads that she never doesn't wear slip at the edge of her sleeve. “There are no eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue,” she is saying, and Timu is spreading her fingers carefully like a fan opening, tilting her hand, making the beads tremble at her wrist. “Look, look, look,” she murmurs, and her face is scary, and she and Jinhua both watch as the dark thing falls, separating into clumps that drop to the floor and settle in mounds at Timu's feet. “And now there is no hair. It was the last thing to hold me in the realm of earthly attachments, the last thing to make me a wife. Now it is gone, and so is your father.”

Air moves in the room, ruffling the mounds of Timu's black hair freshly cut from her horrible, naked scalp. Jinhua's breath comes in small gasps, and Timu takes a step closer to the bed. Tiny shoes peek out from the hem of her gown. They are watermelon red, embroidered bridal shoes.

“Your Baba has gone to the Western Heaven to join the ancestors,” she says now. The white thing hangs limply from Timu's
hand, not quite touching the floor—
and what is Timu saying?
Jinhua sees loose threads, a coarse weave, a ragged hem, a sleeve. She is shivering. It is a gown in Timu's hand. It is white, the color for mourning, a
xiaofu.
It is what people wear to weep and wail when a person is dead.

“Get up now, child. Put this on to show your grief,” Timu says, and something as large as an egg lodges in Jinhua's throat. It feels as though it will be there for a long time, and the gown looks far too big—
and
Baba always comes back after a while. He always does, but where is he now?

Timu is speaking quickly, and she is offering the
xiaofu
with two hands outstretched as though she were giving a gift, the prayer beads dangling at her wrist, the gown moving like a demon, a white one, slowly closer to Jinhua. And Timu is talking, talking, talking, and her eyes and lips and teeth are leaping from her face, and now the prayer beads are as shrill as a whistle close to Jinhua's ear. Timu says that Baba is dead. She says that the sword to cut off his head was the emperor's sword, and it was sharp. The sleeve of the white gown is a blur touching Jinhua's cheek, her ear, her forehead, brushing against her skin, hurting her. She covers her ears with her fists, and there is no air to breathe—and all that she can think about is that Timu is a liar. She should go away and please, please stop talking, stop saying those things about Baba. And while she thinks these things Jinhua is becoming more and more afraid—
and can it be true that the emperor's sword has cut off Baba's head?

There is a sudden silence. Timu's breath is close, and her ears bloom neat and small against her hairless head, and she is perfectly still for a moment. Then she wails, “We must both strive for virtue, child, you and I.” And she howls,
“Shi bu zai lai.
”
Time that has passed will never come back.

Jinhua goes limp. Light streams through the open door like
narrow fingers; outside in the street a bucket of water hits the ground with a loud smack, and Jinhua folds herself around her knees. She bites down hard into her kneecap with her front teeth, and there is a gap for the one that fell out this morning, and she knows that Baba isn't coming back. And she knows more than this. She knows that it is the emperor who has cut off Baba's head with his tiger sword that has sharpness on two sides—and Jinhua's own words, the words she said to Baba, are in her ears now, clear and huge and terrifying: “Baba, I wish that you would disobey the emperor . . .”

Timu is nodding as though she knows all this, and Jinhua has a question, and the question is urgent. She asks it in a whisper that is like a sob.

“Who will look after me now?”

Timu covers her face with her hands. “I cannot give you an answer,” she says. “I am wind blowing from an empty cave, and I am neither more nor less than this.” And then, with two fingers extended from her fist, Timu makes the round gesture of chopsticks fetching food from a bowl, and the sound of the prayer beads is softer than it was before.

“There is rice on the table. Eat it, child. Today you will need
yuanqi
—you will need all of your strength when the go-between comes to get
you.”

ONE FOOT CANNOT STAND

Jinhua

“Is Timu coming back?”

Clouds have stained the sky an icy white, and it is cold outside because it is the time of Autumn Begins and soon it will be winter. Jinhua is standing in Timu's courtyard, where “Light is better for looking,” the go-between said as she sat herself on the garden stool where only Timu ever sits with the tomcat curled at her feet. Jinhua has covered her
naizi
and her
sichu
as best she can with just two hands, and her teeth are chattering, and chicken-skin bumps are forming on every part of her naked body. Timu has gone, but the cat is there at the go-between's feet as though it doesn't matter that his mistress has abandoned him and Jinhua, both.

“You never mind about your Timu.” The go-between is frowning. She is loud and fat, and there are not enough hairs to cover her head—and Jinhua doesn't understand why Timu has allowed this person to come into her courtyard and to sit on her stool. “Where she go and where you go now not same. Not same at all like
emperor's palace”—the go-between pauses, looking around, and Jinhua can't stop staring at the wart on her eye that wobbles when the go-between blinks—“not same like emperor's palace and pot for shitting. Not same like this place and that thing or that place and this thing.” The go-between hisses at the cat, and the tomcat stares back, unafraid, untouchable, and she hisses again, this time at Jinhua.

“You turn around.” With a crooked forefinger the go-between gestures a circle the size of an orange. Her fingernail is dark like strong tea, and her feet are planted, her trousered thighs widely parted. She is looking straight at Jinhua's
naizi.

“Hold arms up,
zheme yang,
” she says. Like this. The go-between's hands fly skyward, and her dark blue bosom heaves, and Jinhua notices a crusty stain on the sleeve of her jacket right at her elbow—and it is hateful. A gust of wind makes oak leaves crackle overhead; red tassels tremble on the lanterns; a shutter makes a sudden banging sound—
peng peng.
Jinhua clutches herself in the two places that must be hidden. Timu said, “You must do as the lady tells you,” but this is not a good thing that this person is making her do. It is not virtuous for a girl to be naked and barefoot outside in the courtyard with someone who is mean and dirty and hissing at the cat even though the cat has not done anything—
and what if a man comes and sees her standing here like this, without any clothes, and why is Timu letting this happen?

She is being punished.

“You not sick, little girl,” the go-between says now. “You not hungry. You not die from this. Why you make face like that?” She struggles to her feet and hawks first from her nose and then from her throat. She grabs both of Jinhua's arms and pulls and spits, and a bone cracks in Jinhua's shoulder. The wart on the lady's eye is close and red and angry, and it looks as though it might sprout legs and crawl across her face.

“Look-look first, then business. Not business, then look-look,” the go-between is muttering. Jinhua is breathing only through her mouth, and the go-between's fingers catch her nipple—which Jinhua doesn't expect—and she twists it painfully. Jinhua shrinks back and wants to drop her arms and crouch, to hide what no one should ever look at. With a snarl and a slap, the go-between says, “Be still,” and her hands move across Jinhua's chest with flat palms that hurt her bones. Bamboo groans nearby, and the wind is blowing more and more, and the go-between's hands keep moving.

Jinhua whimpers, “I want Baba,” even though Baba is dead, and she knows that—
she knows it is true.

The go-between sneers. “Your Baba is a
rotting-no-head-dead-body-corpse,
” she says, and she is laughing now.
Huo-huo-huo—huo-huo.
Her fingers reach quickly for Jinhua's throat and then her mouth; they pry her teeth apart, circle her gums, stop at the gap where her tooth is lost.

Baba is not what the go-between said. He is dead, but he isn't that.
Jinhua's tongue uncoils; she screams, and the go-between says,
“Hè,”
and,
Yes, Baba is that thing that she said, and Jinhua is the one to blame.
A new stink explodes from the go-between's mouth, and Jinhua retches but nothing comes out because she could not eat the rice that Timu brought for her. It is the smell that is making her sick. It is the dirty fingers that were in her mouth, her empty stomach, and being so terribly cold. It is what the lady is saying about Baba—and what Timu said—
and what Jinhua said to Baba when it was time to go to sleep.

The lady's hands are moving again, forcing Jinhua upright, then groping downward, pausing at her belly. A finger pokes her belly hole; a hand slides down to paw her bottom, the backs of her thighs, her knees, and her calves; both of the go-between's hands linger at her feet, first one foot, then the other, bending and
pinching and twisting. The go-between's hands are now at her ankles, between her legs, moving up and up and up. The touch is lighter than before, the fingers like crawling, scary spider feet. Now they reach for the place where Jinhua pees. A finger bores inside. Jinhua's teeth sound like breaking dishes in her head, and she can't make them stop, and she can't stop thinking about
rotting-no-head-dead-body-corpse.
A long cry comes out of her. It is the same noise that an animal makes when someone kills it. It is because the go-between is touching her, and because Baba is dead, and because there is nothing she can do, and because Timu said,
“Shi bu zai lai.”
Time that has passed will never come back.

But now it is finished. The go-between lady has pulled her finger out of Jinhua's bottom. She steps back and lifts the finger to her eye. She tilts her nose to sniff; she brings the finger to her tongue, which is as wide and pink as a slab of pig-meat. She smacks her lips. “Tasty,” she says. “Sweet, like dates. Just what man like. Now get dressed. Wear beautiful clothes, not ugly
xiaofu.
”

The go-between says she will give Timu only six silver coins even though Jinhua is seven years old. “Because feet not bound,” she says, “girl worth only six and not seven.” Timu nods and says,
“Qing bian.”
As you please. Jinhua looks down at the legs of her bright trousers that are for the New Year festival; she looks past them at her very special shoes with happy tiger faces embroidered on the toes. A memory comes. Sitting on Baba's lap watching fish play in water. Timu interrupts, pushing Meiling in front of her. They don't care about the fish the way Jinhua and Baba do, how they swim over and under one another in happy, graceful circles that go on
forever and for always; how they jump and splash and hide under lotus leaves. Timu pokes Meiling with a finger, prodding her to say something that she can't say herself.

“The mistress wants to know, Master, when you will have the foot binder come to bind her feet?”

“Yongbu,”
was Baba's answer. Not ever. He said it twice. “My daughter's feet will not be bound. I will not subject her to this foolish, harmful thing.” Jinhua was glad that Baba said this. If her feet were bound, the tiger shoes would be too big, and she would sway from side to side when she walks like Timu and Meiling do, and she would not be able to run even a few steps, or skip, or play. And worst of all, a husband would come to take her away from Baba if she had beautiful, tiny feet, and she would not like that at all.

Now the clang of six heavy silver coins hurts Jinhua's ears. The go-between puts them on Timu's table one coin at a time, counting them out, glancing to see whether Timu is watching. “This is my dowry for the temple,” Timu says as though she had never been silent, never stopped speaking, always said what she had to say.

“No matter,” the go-between replies.
“Qian jiu shi qian.”
Money is money. She holds out her hand, and Timu gives her a piece of paper, and the paper has writing and chop marks on it. The go-between folds it twice and then once more and tucks it into her sleeve, and Jinhua wonders what is written on this paper.

Now Timu is leading the way to the third gate, the one that faces the canal and makes a noise like a baby crying when Cook opens it to squabble with the boat people about fish and onions and radishes—and money. The go-between has taken Jinhua's hand and is pulling her. In her other hand, Jinhua has the three bright kumquats that Timu has given her. “In case you get hungry,” Timu said, “on your journey.”

“Where am I going on my journey?” Jinhua asked her in a voice so small that her own ears almost couldn't hear. She didn't expect an answer. No one is answering questions today, not the way that Baba always does, or Meiling, or Old Uncle Xu—the gardener—as long as the question is about a blossoming tree, a fern, a piece of Taihu rockery—
and does it resemble an old man weeping or a nesting loon?

But this time Timu did answer in a whisper. “You are going to your fate,” she said. “And I to mine. It is the Will of Heaven.” The go-between nodded and her teeth flashed a brownish-gray color, and Jinhua thought,
No, it is not the Will of Heaven. It is because Timu took the silver coins and put them in her money pouch and doesn't want me to be where she is.
Her eyes felt wide and full, and then she thought,
And it is because I told Baba to disobey the emperor.

Now Timu is straining to open the gate; she isn't strong like Cook is, and the crying-baby noise has started. Timu is holding on to the edge of the door as though she needs that just to stand up. The go-between's grip on Jinhua's hand has tightened, and Jinhua is pulling back, looking at Timu because Timu is the only person she knows who is left.

They step over the high threshold that stops evil spirits from coming inside, the go-between first and then Jinhua. Her legs feel strange, and Jinhua remembers that no one has combed her hair today or tidied her braids or washed her face. The air outside the wall smells sour, and the sky is turning gray, and the water in the canal is flowing strongly to the east as though it were running away from the west. Jinhua turns. Timu has stayed inside the gate; her hands are clasped in the traditional way to say good-bye, and her elbows are tight against her waist as though they were holding the two sides of Timu together. Jinhua calls out. It is the last possible moment to say this—or anything. “Why do I have to go on a
journey? Why can't I stay here with you, Timu? I will be good forever—and for always; I will look after you, I promise, now that Baba is a
rotting-no-head-dead-body-corpse.
” When Jinhua says this by accident, Timu's eyes turn shiny. Her teeth are tightly shut. The gate is closing, slowly, stretching the baby's cry into a wail that lasts for a long time—and then Timu's face is
gone.