The Concubine's Daughter (2 page)

Yik-Munn had earned a ripe young concubine with a spirit yet to be tamed, who would nourish him with her virgin body and give him great face. He would soon beat the foolishness out of her and change the insolent light in her eyes to one of gratitude and respect; he would draw
upon her rebellious sap to nourish his spirit and receive her pure essence like dew from an open flower.

That she had looked at him without fear but with clear distaste, and even seemed to flash a warning, had caused his blood to surge. He had run a bony finger around the stiff collar caught too tightly by a brightly colored tie. His large and splendid teeth displayed themselves in an approving smile. Defiance in one so young gave him a thrill that cast all other thoughts aside; she would be small and tight as a mouse’s ear. He would not demand love or affection, or even the friendship of a fond companion; had he not once received such futile sentiments in abundance from wives One, Two, and Three?

He knew what pleased him most in the bedroom, and expected such service from Pai-Ling: the incomparable feeling of ownership and absolute, unquestionable power. In addition, his elder sister, who had once been a part of Shanghai society and had maintained the best of connections, had recommended this fine family. This, she had assured him, was where he would find a suitable concubine—a summer peach to bring endless spring in his autumn years.

Now that the Ling family’s fortunes had crumbled along with those of many other wealthy Shanghai families, this was the time to do business, when they were eager to escape and in no position to bargain. That the girl had been sired by the master of the house and a white Russian mistress of uncertain heritage had been considered in the price and otherwise not spoken of. Not only did she promise new adventures in the bedroom and have hips to bear more sons, but most precious of all were what he saw when she was presented for his consideration: her tiny lotus feet, rare these days.

So dainty were her crippled toes, bent until they touched her heel—the deformity of elegance sheathed so exquisitely in embroidered silk—that he could cradle them in the palm of his rough farmer’s hand and fondle them like a lovely finger jade. This girl was indeed
qian-jin
—to be compared to a thousand pieces of gold. As with all things costly on Great Pine Farm, the money to pay the asking price had come from the brimming coffers of Elder Sister.

That his wives would not welcome another as young and beautiful as Pai-Ling was certain. They had worked hard to attain power in the House of Munn, to play mah-jongg in the village and enjoy the lavish attentions of the beauty parlor whenever they wished.

Yik-Munn had returned to Great Pine Farm with his proud and willful concubine, younger than his youngest son, dressed in silks of red and gold, carried over the muddy fields in a palanquin. This had given him great face among his neighbors. When she tottered behind him on his frequent visits to the temple, the tilt of her spine and sway of her behind made him the envy of friends and enemies alike.
Yes
, Yik-Munn had thought,
Pai-Ling is well worth the money.

That was almost a year ago. She had been a problem to him from the start, biting him as savagely as a stray dog on the first night because, she yelled, he was too hasty, too big, and too clumsy for her. On his command, One had gagged her, and Two and Three were told to hold her wrists and ankles while he struck her nearly senseless and planted his seed so violently, her squalling roused the doves from the barn roof.

Worse, the commotion had disturbed Elder Sister, known to the household as Goo-Mah (Great-Aunt), who hammered for quiet with her heavy blackwood stick.

Yik-Munn was afraid of his sister, who lived on and on and had stopped counting the years while she held tightly to the family purse strings. Goo-Mah also possessed lotus feet, no bigger than a child’s, but could no longer stand or walk and had not done so for a thousand moons. The feet had rotted so much, their stink escaped her tightly closed door.

Hidden away in upstairs rooms of her own, unable to leave her bed, she was surrounded by the furnishings of a prosperous younger life. On a shelf, proudly arranged side by side like rare and precious toys in the prettiest of colors, stood the tiny silken slippers that once encased her feet so sublimely. She was senile, toothless, and half deaf, her lifeless stumps soaking always in a bowl of steaming herbs to ease her agony, her malignant spirit prowling the house like a phantom.

Goo-Mah no longer feared death or the judgment of gods that might
await her; she prayed to be taken every day. Life had become so bleak, her only remaining pleasure was to be as disagreeable as possible to those around her. She could not demand more attention or command more obedience in the house of her brother if she were the great Dowager Empress Tzu-Hsi, who was renowned for her arrogance and cruelty.

Reduced as her life had become, her pride had grown all the greater. Did she not own this farm that had made them wealthy, and the house where they lived with such comfort and security? In truth, her worthless brother would have starved, and his greedy wives with him, if it were not for the endless generosity of the great Goo-Mah.

Was she not, until now, the only one in this family who had feet so splendid they had been glorified by the lotus slipper, stroked like a kitten by a loving husband who showered her with gold? She could have been a courtesan with such delicate feet, while those around her had monstrous extremities fit only to paddle in mud.

Goo-Mah’s face was wrinkled as a preserved plum, pale as parchment, and her eyes were filmed by the milky blue of cataracts. To express her dignity and remind visitors of her great importance, she wore the jade and ivory trinkets collected throughout her life—rings on every withered finger, bony wrists laden with bracelets, her scraggy neck hidden by necklaces of gold, silver, and precious stones. Crowning this treasury of memories, skewering her crooked wig, was an array of combs and dangling decorations.

She trusted no one, least of all her good-for-nothing brother. She did not like him, she did not respect him, and she did not trust him. So sure was she that he would not spend enough on the coffin that would carry her to the glittering mansion of her ancestors, she had had one crafted to her grandest expectations, supervising every detail from her bedside. Hewn from the ebony heart of a persimmon tree, it was sheathed in copper, sound as the keel of an emperor’s junk, every inch inscribed with sacred talismans to ward off all manners of evil that might waylay her ascent into heaven.

Lined by layers of the finest silk, with hidden pockets for her most valuable treasures, it was kept in the room adjoining her bedchamber,
covered by a black silk cloth and surrounded by porcelain images of the appropriate gods. Far too large to be taken through the door and down the stairs no matter how many strong men were enlisted, a crane would need to be used and the window demolished to move her remains to the family cemetery beneath the great pine. It was a comfort to her to know that she would have the very shortest of distances to travel from this life to the next, but would command attention and respect to the very last instant, causing as much trouble as possible even after her death.

Beneath her pillow, in a small, flat box, resided the most important riches to be taken with her into the afterlife: a set of jade plugs fashioned to close each of her nine orifices so that any roving spirit in search of a home might not find a way to enter her corpse. Exquisite to look upon and carved from only the most expensive stone, they differed in shape and color, from duck-bone white and mutton-fat yellow to rose madder, kingfisher blue, and date-skin brown. The matched pair that would close her eyes forever had the sheen of chestnuts and were in the shape of fish, who with eyes eternally open would be forever watchful. The most splendid piece would be placed in her mouth to hold her tongue. It was the color of morning dew on a chrysanthemum and shaped like a cicada, a creature that, through its long periods underground in the larval stage, symbolized a resurrection of the spirit and eternal spring.

Great-Aunt had railed long and loud when told that the new concubine defied her brother’s wishes, demanding she be flayed within an inch of her life and denied all food and privilege until she showed proper respect and humility to those who sheltered her and filled her bowl. Did this ill-bred bitch not know how fortunate she was to be chosen to cross the door of this most honorable clan? Her brother, worthless fool that he may be, was the oldest male in her family and deserved respect. Any who insulted him, insulted her, and this she would not tolerate.

So rebellious was Pai-Ling, Goo-Mah declared to her troubled brother, that the women of the household had concluded that she was possessed by a demon. Where else would such defiance come from in so worthy a household as the House of Munn?

In the kitchen, Number One plotted against the impudent Shanghai
bitch, convincing Two and Three of the danger. They wished her gone, along with her precious feet; there was no room for one so young in a house already filled with honorable and deserving women. They wanted no more sons to share the family wealth, nor anyone beneath their roof who could awaken their husband’s passions. The mistresses he bothered in the village were well known to them, and welcome to keep him occupied as long and as often as they could … but a concubine under the same roof was a danger to them all.

If young enough, a clever concubine was capable of grasping power from those who had earned it—those who had served the master of the house in harder times and borne his sons. The women had thought of poison, and secretly paid good money for the deadliest of mushrooms—and more for the black magician’s talismans—to see her cursed. But the girl from Shanghai had proved fruitful and was quickly with child before the forces of darkness could find a way to be rid of her.

These were the thoughts and deeds of One and Two, while Three said little. There was nothing she could do but show the lonely concubine what small benevolence she could whenever the opportunity arose. Secretly, by eyes that met without conflict or by tone of voice and touch when unobserved, they had come to know each other as forbidden friends.

Yik-Munn’s hand trembled as he placed the brimming cup before the shrine. Why did morbid thoughts crawl through his mind at such a moment? Perhaps they came from his ancestors, unsmiling in an assortment of wood and metal frames. Joss sticks pricked the shadows with sparks of cherry red, beside a bowl of fresh peaches, golden kumquats, and plump pomegranates, their stones and pips assuring many sons. He knew how careful a man with young sons must be. The whim of the gods could be as fickle as March winds. When his sons were infants he had dressed them as girls, with jade anklets, to deceive the evil spirits into thinking they were female and not worth claiming, to be passed over as something unworthy of attention.

He had given them names like Ah-Gow—the Dog—and a silver collar to wear so that they would be protected from the hungry ghosts
roaming the skies, ready to snatch them away. He had entrusted each of his sons to Chang-Hsien, whose portrait, bow in hand, hung where they slept, his heavenly arrow ready to shoot down the spirit of purgatory that sought to devour the precious soul.

Threads of incense wound among rows of tablets on smoke-grimed shelves. Slips of wood, bone, and ivory bore the names of the long-dead and the reign in which they had lived. On the altar, in a brass urn, paper offerings still curled in feathers of blue flame. It was not surprising that thoughts of his sister should come to him here.

One day she would join these somber faces, and he prayed daily for it to be soon. Great-Aunt had long outgrown her usefulness and lived only to remind him of his failure. She, who had buried three husbands and accumulated their wealth, was the one who controlled his life and the welfare of his family. When the day came to add her photograph to this grim gallery, he would be a rich man, and a free one.

He felt no guilt at praying for his sister’s death, but it brought tears to his eyes to think of the cost of her interment; if it had been left to him, her remains would reside in an empty wine jar somewhere in the spice fields.

For many moons, he had been ready to send her on her way. All preparations had been seen to, and he looked with comfort upon the paper offerings that filled each darkened corner: a splendid palanquin to see that her lotus feet would not touch the ground; her favorite foods and a gourd filled with fresh water; effigies of many servants to wait upon her every need; a magnificent mansion for her soul to occupy on arrival; great wads of heaven money to assure her every comfort in the afterlife—all made of colored paper pasted over frames of split bamboo.

He was a cautious man, and had made generous offerings at the temple for his unborn son. Freshly roasted pig, an abundance of fruit, flagons of good wine, and pyramids of rice cakes as high as his head had been laid upon the altar, then eaten under a tree by Yik-Munn and his family. There was, after all, no worthiness in waste.

This he had done for every month that his son grew in the womb.
Gold and silver paper had also been burned at the shrine of the earth god, and his prayers had been pinned to the sacred banyan in the village to please the tree spirits. There was nothing to say a man should not travel all roads to heaven and call upon many powers when a son was to be born, and he had beseeched them all.

Yik-Munn was wrenched from this reverie as the screaming changed to a choking moan, and the first lusty cry of his son reached out to him like a hand from above. He fell to his knees and kowtowed deeply three times. Seconds later, a wail of despair wrapped the house in loud lament, the words of the midwife clearly heard echoing among the rafters, filling the joyless rooms, and spreading out across the fields: “
Aaaeeeyah … lui, ahhh … lui, aahhhh … luiiii … luuiiii, ahh… .
A girl, a girl. It is a girl… .”

Only then did he know that his preparations and offerings had failed to appease the eight immortals. The dried penis of the wild horse, which he had paid for dearly each week and consumed to increase his issue and assure him of a son, had not been enough. The two duck eggs he had placed so carefully in her chamber pot to attract the precious testicles of a boy had made a mockery of his faith. All gods had turned from him and allowed the beggar spirits to snatch away his son. There would be no new boy child to join the others, to create greater wealth for the House of Munn and add filial piety to a deserving father’s old age, to care for his soul in the afterworld. Why had he been cursed with a female?