62
AIYI
I stepped inside the teahouse. In the far corner, Sinmay sat at a table near a window, his back facing the garden, wearing a pair of round sunglasses with black rims; near his feet sat a black umbrella. He would be outraged. Another scandal. His youngest sister impregnated by a foreigner. But he was the only person who could save me.
I sat on a red wicker chair across from him, glad I was not showing. I had asked to meet him at the teahouse near the Winding Bridge in the famous Yu Garden, since teahouses were favorite spots for cultured pundits like Sinmay, who came to gossip and complain about the war since they were too afraid to carry a gun. I had frequented the Yu Garden teahouse as a child—they had my favorite sticky nine-layer chrysanthemum cakes, and I had loved the oddly shaped rocks, the goldfish in the streams, and the architecture of the buildings.
“Good afternoon, older brother,” I said.
The teahouse was not busy at this hour; only a few customers sat near the square dark-red tables, the framed lanterns hung from the rafters. An old man in a long robe was counting peanuts in a saucer, a musician was playing a two-string instrument in the corner, and a group of three young men, their heads gathered close, were plotting something at the far end.
“You haven’t come home for over three months, little sister. Are you going to come back?” Sinmay took off the black-rimmed sunglasses and placed them near a tea set with blue butterflies.
“So you can lock me up again?” I was ruining my chances, yet I couldn’t let him off easily.
The old man was counting. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”
“Longjing or Biluochun?” Sinmay spoke with his usual gramophone voice, but his tone, to my surprise, was without rancor.
A tea aficionado, he could spend hours lecturing on the varied shapes of tea leaves. A Longjing leaf looked like the tongue of a spring swallow, and a Biluochun leaf appeared to be a supple conch from a fertile bank. All that poetic nonsense.
“I don’t drink tea. Peiyu loves tea.”
“They are the finest of our country. Try them.” He reached for a teapot and poured the tea into a cup in front of me.
Sinmay, like Cheng, had never poured tea for anyone, let alone me. I stared at him.
“Don’t look surprised. It’s tea. The last cup in this teahouse. They don’t have any more left. Drink while you can. Hong Kong has fallen, do you know? I received a letter from Emily, dated in December after Hong Kong’s fall. It took the letter six months to arrive. But she replied after all. She said the Japanese arrested many American sailors, British soldiers, and their families, and drove them to markets and beheaded them.”
A shiver ran through me. “How’s Emily?”
“She was arrested, but she showed them our marriage certificate to prove she was a wife of a Chinese citizen. So she was released. Remember the certificate? It was her idea. She wanted to save our printing press from falling into Japanese hands. She carried the certificate with her in Hong Kong, and it saved her life.” He handed me a letter.
My dearest Sinmay, my love, my soul mate, she wrote.
“She loves me, little sister. I know love will not turn into ash.”
“Is she coming back to Shanghai?” I gave him back the letter.
“She didn’t say. She asked about you. She said you were a talented businesswoman. I shouldn’t have hit you and locked you up.”
Another surprise. Sinmay was too arrogant. Apology was one of the metaphors missing in his poetry. When he’d crossed my name off Mother’s will, he had never thought of my rights.
I picked up the teacup, unsure what to make of this change.
He stared at the floating leaves. “I envy you, little sister. I was like you once. Emily and I fell for each other head over heels. We didn’t care about what others thought. Your sister-in-law didn’t approve of us, my friends didn’t approve of us, but they couldn’t stop us. Emily was born with a free spirit, and I loved her for that. We wrote our poetry in bed, shared our verses under the moon, composed the rhymes in the sun. We were in love.” Scratchiness appeared in his voice. “If you really wish to live with that pianist, I won’t stop you. And I shall give you my blessing.”
I didn’t expect this. A wave of laughter came from the trio at the far end. “You mean it?”
He nodded. “Come home. A good woman cannot live in an inn.”
I looked at him. “I’m with child, older brother.”
He put down the teacup. “I was worried about that. Come home. You need your family.”