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.
“Horseback riding.”
“It’s an unusual sport.”
“Not in Texas. He grew up there. But enough about my kid. I don’t want to bore you. You’ve told me so much about your past, and this is precious material to work with.”
The moment has come. “So, I’ve told you that I’ve given away my daughter. Are you going to put that in the documentary too?”
Actually, I know she will, but I try to ascertain how she might handle it. If she writes as I have confessed, people will understand my pain, but if she is biased against me, then my reputation as a heartless mother is all but sealed.
She puts down her chopsticks; her face blooms with dismay—or is it disgust? “The only thing I can promise is that I won’t judge you, Ms. Shao. It’s unthinkable to me, yet I hear things like that are rather common in China. It’s sad.”
It bothers me, the sense of privilege, and the arrogance in her voice—her, America grown. Yet what can I say, being the one who’s judged? No donation I gave to the temples for the past decades can wash off my sin.
“I’ve heard of Miriam’s death from the Shanghai Jews, and I confess it was very difficult to understand. Everyone told me a different story. Some said she died of sickness, some said she was shot because she fought, some said you brought the Japanese there. Now I can see how it really happened. This is very helpful, Ms. Shao.”
I nod and open my mouth. I need to tell her something extremely important, but I can’t bring up my courage.