going to learn a lot from you.”
“I doubt it,” he responds, and I wonder again why he’s so pessimistic. “We’ll do our time here, but those peasants aren’t going to learn anything from me. You’ll see. And I’d have to agree with Pearl and May. People like us are better suited to Shanghai.” After a moment, he adds, “Even the way it is today.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of what looks like beige crepe paper. “To use with your nightstool.”
He retreats into his room, and I return to mine. The walls of the room are made of the same thin dark wood that makes up all the buildings I’ve seen so far in the villa. I mean really thin, because I can hear Z.G. in the next room pee and fart. I take off my clothes, put on my nightgown, and, for the first time, use the nightstool. If my new father has no embarrassment, then I have to get over mine. Nevertheless, I sit on the edge, lean forward, and try to direct my stream in a way that will make the least amount of sound.
I lie down. It’s much too hot to pull the quilt over me, and not a breath of fresh air comes through the opening where a glass window would ordinarily be. I fall asleep to the sound of mice scratching and scuttling in the rafters.
Pearl
A WIDOW SHOULD …
I’M ON A plane to Hong Kong, a place I haven’t been since my sister and I left China twenty years ago. As I sit in my cramped seat, my past churns through my mind. My sister—a self-centered woman, whom I’ve tried to protect since she was a baby and who repaid me by betraying me again and again and again—haunts me. My daughter fills my heart with worry. My husband, Sam … Oh, Sam…
I’m a widow now. My mother used to say that a widow is the unluckiest person on earth, because either she committed an unforgivable crime in a previous life or her lack of devotion to her husband caused him to die. Either way, she’s doomed to live out her life unloved by another man, for no good family will accept a widow into their home. And even if a family would take a widow, she would know better than to accept, because the world knows that a decent woman should never go with a second man. A miserable existence should be anticipated and accepted.
A widow should pray, fast, and recite sutras. (I’ll omit the sutras and confine myself to prayers.) She should dedicate herself to doing good deeds at her place of worship. (This I might only be able to do in my heart for now, since I have no idea what I’ll find for a Methodist like me in the People’s Republic of China.) She should spend the rest of her life in chastity. (Something that doesn’t break my heart, if I’m honest.) She should give up material possessions and devote herself to others like me: the socially dead. (Instead, I’m flying across the world to find my daughter.) I’ve often been told that a widow’s suffering will overcome vanity and attachment by wearing it out. (I’ve never been vain—that was something I left to my sister—but I cannot give up attachment if it means giving up on my daughter.) A proper widow should confine herself to dark colors and maybe a few pieces of jade of good quality. But why am I even thinking about these things when I’m on a frantic and unplanned search for Joy?
It’s fair to say I don’t know what I’m doing. I like to plot my life and proceed carefully, but life doesn’t always follow a plan. As a young woman I loved Z.G., but I was forced into an arranged marriage to pay my father’s debts. Now, as I think about how I raised May’s daughter as my own, never knowing that Z.G. was Joy’s father, my chest constricts in sorrow and embarrassment at the idea of May and Z.G. together. She is a Sheep, while he is a Rabbit. This is one of the most ideal matches, and yet I believed that Z.G. and I were the ones meant to be together. The knowledge is devastating and it breaks my heart, but right now I have other things to worry about.
We cross the International
“I doubt it,” he responds, and I wonder again why he’s so pessimistic. “We’ll do our time here, but those peasants aren’t going to learn anything from me. You’ll see. And I’d have to agree with Pearl and May. People like us are better suited to Shanghai.” After a moment, he adds, “Even the way it is today.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of what looks like beige crepe paper. “To use with your nightstool.”
He retreats into his room, and I return to mine. The walls of the room are made of the same thin dark wood that makes up all the buildings I’ve seen so far in the villa. I mean really thin, because I can hear Z.G. in the next room pee and fart. I take off my clothes, put on my nightgown, and, for the first time, use the nightstool. If my new father has no embarrassment, then I have to get over mine. Nevertheless, I sit on the edge, lean forward, and try to direct my stream in a way that will make the least amount of sound.
I lie down. It’s much too hot to pull the quilt over me, and not a breath of fresh air comes through the opening where a glass window would ordinarily be. I fall asleep to the sound of mice scratching and scuttling in the rafters.
Pearl
A WIDOW SHOULD …
I’M ON A plane to Hong Kong, a place I haven’t been since my sister and I left China twenty years ago. As I sit in my cramped seat, my past churns through my mind. My sister—a self-centered woman, whom I’ve tried to protect since she was a baby and who repaid me by betraying me again and again and again—haunts me. My daughter fills my heart with worry. My husband, Sam … Oh, Sam…
I’m a widow now. My mother used to say that a widow is the unluckiest person on earth, because either she committed an unforgivable crime in a previous life or her lack of devotion to her husband caused him to die. Either way, she’s doomed to live out her life unloved by another man, for no good family will accept a widow into their home. And even if a family would take a widow, she would know better than to accept, because the world knows that a decent woman should never go with a second man. A miserable existence should be anticipated and accepted.
A widow should pray, fast, and recite sutras. (I’ll omit the sutras and confine myself to prayers.) She should dedicate herself to doing good deeds at her place of worship. (This I might only be able to do in my heart for now, since I have no idea what I’ll find for a Methodist like me in the People’s Republic of China.) She should spend the rest of her life in chastity. (Something that doesn’t break my heart, if I’m honest.) She should give up material possessions and devote herself to others like me: the socially dead. (Instead, I’m flying across the world to find my daughter.) I’ve often been told that a widow’s suffering will overcome vanity and attachment by wearing it out. (I’ve never been vain—that was something I left to my sister—but I cannot give up attachment if it means giving up on my daughter.) A proper widow should confine herself to dark colors and maybe a few pieces of jade of good quality. But why am I even thinking about these things when I’m on a frantic and unplanned search for Joy?
It’s fair to say I don’t know what I’m doing. I like to plot my life and proceed carefully, but life doesn’t always follow a plan. As a young woman I loved Z.G., but I was forced into an arranged marriage to pay my father’s debts. Now, as I think about how I raised May’s daughter as my own, never knowing that Z.G. was Joy’s father, my chest constricts in sorrow and embarrassment at the idea of May and Z.G. together. She is a Sheep, while he is a Rabbit. This is one of the most ideal matches, and yet I believed that Z.G. and I were the ones meant to be together. The knowledge is devastating and it breaks my heart, but right now I have other things to worry about.
We cross the International
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