Chinese Cinderella Read online

  He returned and collapsed in his seat, absolutely drained. ‘It’s over! We’re doomed!’ he cried tremulously, quaking with fear. In a leaden voice, he related his encounter with Niang outside the bedroom door.

  A profound and uneasy silence came over us. We stared at each other, dumbfounded. Slowly but methodically, we set about destroying all the draft copies of the incriminating ‘anonymous’ letter of appeal to Father. Big Sister tore the paper into shreds while muttering, ‘Deny everything!’ over and over. Big Brother lit a match and reduced the whole lot to ashes that we scattered outside the window. When the dinner‐bell rang, we trooped downstairs stoically to face the music, telling each other we were in this together and would resist with a united front.

  We were prepared for confrontation but dinner came and went without incident. In fact, Niang seemed more cordial than usual, reminding us that the next day was Chinese New Year’s. We should dress in our new clothes. As a special treat, we would first be served a salted duck egg for breakfast, then Father would take us for a drive in his motor car along the Bund, the grand embankment along the river, ending with a visit to our Grand Aunt’s bank at 480 Nanjing Lu, where we had all been invited to lunch.

  When we returned upstairs after dinner and still nothing had been mentioned, we could hardly believe our good luck. Then we began to question Third Brother’s sanity, but he stuck to his story. ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested darkly, ‘we’re being deliberately kept in a state of uncertainty because that’s what Niang most enjoys. The cat‐and‐mouse game.’ Once again, we began to feel sick with apprehension but there was nothing we could do but wait.

  What Niang decided to do was to divide our loyalty towards each other by recruiting our leader, Big Sister, over to ‘their’ side.

  The next day, as we rose from the table after a festive New Year’s dinner, Niang smiled at Big Sister and invited her to move downstairs into a spare bedroom on the first floor, their floor.

  Her offer aroused a number of disturbing emotions among us.

  After Big Sister moved down to the first floor, she started assuming airs and distancing herself from those of us left on the floor above. She yearned to gain Niang’s favour and gradually came to realise the importance of being on good terms with Miss Chien. The latter shared a room with Niang’s two children and catered to their every wish, particularly those of Fourth Brother, Niang’s favourite darling. As the days went by, Big Sister’s attitude towards Miss Chien underwent a profound change. The two became friends, bound by a mutual aptitude and appetite for intrigue. Big Sister would scurry around to Niang at every opportunity to list her grievances against her former allies, fawning on those in favour and gossiping about those fallen from grace. She vaunted her newfound power to instil fear and Niang rewarded her with special favours: gifts, pocket‐money, outings with friends.

  There were no more private gatherings among the five of us, let alone anonymous letters to Father.

  Full of envy and discontent, we four met to discuss the situation.

  ‘Why is she being so favoured?’ Big Brother asked. ‘This has been especially noticeable since Niang eavesdropped on us on New Year’s Eve. Niang must have learnt then that Big Sister is our so‐called leader. She is the only one capable of disguising her handwriting to write a credible anonymous letter to Father in Chinese. What’s going on between her and Niang? I don’t trust either of them. They are two of a kind and will hatch up something horrible when they team up like this.’

  ‘She has allegiance to Niang written all over her face,’ Second Brother added. ‘She makes me sick.’

  ‘She probably makes up outrageous lies about us and adds oil and soya sauce to everything Niang relishes to hear,’ agreed Third Brother. ‘Her method of getting ahead is to inform on everyone up here.’

  ‘The maids were moving furniture into her room yesterday. The door was open so I went in,’ confided Big Brother. ‘Do you know she now has her own writing desk and chest of drawers? Here the three of us have to share a room but she not only has a room to herself but a lacy white bedspread and curtains to match! While I was looking around she sneaked behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. “In future, knock and ask permission before coming in here!” she commanded. I almost threw up when I heard her aggressive and overbearing voice! You’d think she had turned into Niang herself!’

  ‘She has obviously defected,’ Third Brother related. ‘The way she struts around! Yesterday I was coming up the stairs when I saw Big Sister at the doorway of Fourth Brother’s bedroom, begging him for a “teeny weeny” piece of chocolate cake to tide her over until dinner. It made me ill to watch her sucking up to the wily little squirt! Grovelling and demeaning herself like that! What sort of leader is she anyway? Whose side is she on? I’d rather starve to death than lick the boots of Fourth Brother.’

  Big Brother turned to me. ‘I saw Big Sister with her arm around you yesterday asking you questions. Beware of her! She is an expert at feigning affection. Don’t trust her or tell her anything! Otherwise you’ll get hurt. Just remember, she is not like other people’s big sisters! She doesn’t love anyone, certainly not you. If she can, she will do you in!’

  There was no doubt about it. In no time at all, Big Sister had completely gone over to the other side.

  I grew even closer to my aunt. Our room became my refuge. Coming home from school every afternoon, I was ever so glad to cross its threshold, close the door, and spread out my books. Doing homework was the only way to cushion me from the harrowing uncertainties all around.

  I knew Niang loathed me and despised my aunt. It saddened me that Aunt Baba seemed to be under a life sentence of subordination. Though I was little, I understood the awkwardness of her position: how Niang’s wishes always took precedence, how she had to demonstrate caution, submission and humility at every turn.

  I found it impossible to speak of this. It was simply too painful. Instead, I tried to make it up to my aunt by studying hard and getting perfect report cards. Besides, that seemed to be the only way to please my father or get any attention from him whatsoever.

  I was seven years old and in the second grade. The girls in my class nicknamed me ‘Genius’ – partly because of my perfect scholastic record, but also because of my compositions and short stories.

  I started writing by accident. Mrs Lin, my teacher in Chinese literature whose daughter Lin Tao‐tao was my classmate, once gave our class a homework assignment: to write a composition titled ‘My Best Friend’. Most girls wrote about their mothers. I didn’t know mine so I wrote of my aunt.

  My aunt and I share a room. She is my best friend and cares about me in every way. Not only about my hair, my clothes and how I look; but also about my studies, my thoughts and who I am. Though I am really nothing, she makes me believe I am special. When I get a good report card, she locks it in her safe‐deposit box, and wears the key around her neck even when she sleeps, as if my grades were her most cherished treasures.

  My mama and my aunt used to be best friends. Sometimes I dream of my mama on my walks to and from school. I think Mama lives high up on a mountain in a magic castle. One day, if I am really good and study very hard, she will ride down on a cloud to rescue me and take me to live with her. Nothing in Shanghai can compare with her place. It’s a fairyland full of fragrant flowers, towering pines, lovely rocks, soaring bamboos and chirping birds. Every child can enter without a ticket and girls are treated the same as boys. No one is sneered at or scolded without a reason. It’s called Paradise.

  Mrs Lin gave me a high mark and pinned my composition on the bulletin board. From then on, I wrote whenever I had a spare moment. It thrilled me to bring my literary efforts to school, and to see my classmates pass them illicitly from desk to desk. Groups of girls would gather around me during recess to discuss my stories, or to hear me read aloud the latest escapades of my imaginary heroines.

  To me, writing was pure pleasure. It thrilled me to be able to escape the horrors of my daily life in such a
simple way. When I wrote, I forgot that I was the unwanted daughter who had caused my mother’s death. I could be anybody I wished to be. In my narratives, I poured out everything that I dared not say out loud in real life. I was friends with the beautiful princesses and dashing knights who lived in my imagination. I was no longer the lonely little girl bullied by her siblings. Instead I was the female warrior Mulan who would rescue her aunt and Ye Ye from harm.

  In time, my stories became real to my schoolmates also. Once I used the surname Lin () to portray a villain. Lin Tao‐tao read the tale, angrily erased Lin and scribbled Yen (, my family name) in its place. A quarrel ensued between us, each enraged because the other had used her name in such a fashion. When I tried to rub out my name and re‐insert hers, Lin Tao‐tao suddenly burst into tears.

  ‘It’s only make‐believe!’ I protested, feeling ashamed for having made her cry.

  ‘No! It isn’t! You know it isn’t! Look, you’re rubbing so hard, you’ve made a hole in the paper!’

  We both stared at the hole – and suddenly it struck me that we were arguing over nothing. I pointed to the hole and started to giggle. ‘We’re quarrelling over a hole,’ I told her. ‘A hole is nothing! We’re fighting about nothing!’

  Soon, she was laughing too. ‘How about calling your villain Wu‐ming (No Name )?’ she suggested. ‘That way, nothing becomes No Name and nobody gets mad at anybody!’

  ‘Brilliant! Let’s shake hands on that!’

  So the title of my story became ‘The Villain with No Name’.

  In spite of my writing and academic record, my classmates probably suspected there was something pathetic about me. I never spoke of my family; neither issued nor accepted any invitations outside the school; and always refused to eat the candies or snacks brought by my friends. My hair‐style, shoes, socks and book bag did not inspire envy. No one from home ever came to be with me on prize‐giving day, regardless of how many awards I had won.

  They didn’t know that, in front of them, I was desperate to keep up the pretence that I came from a normal, loving family. I couldn’t possibly tell anyone the truth: how worthless and ugly Niang made me feel most of the time; how I was held responsible for any misfortune and was resented for simply being around; how my mind was racked with anxiety and constantly burdened by an impending sense of doom. How I simply loathed myself and wished I could disappear, especially when I was in front of my parents.

  The worst of it was that I could see no way out. That was why I found it hard to fall asleep and sometimes still wet my bed in the middle of the night. But, if I tried to be really good and studied very very hard, perhaps things would become different one day, I would think to myself. Meanwhile, I must not tell anyone how bad it really was. I must just go to school every day and carry inside this dreadful loneliness, a secret I could never share. Otherwise the guise would be over, and Father and Niang would never come to love me.

  Chapter Ten

  Shanghai School Days

  Of all the girls in my class at Sheng Xin School, Wu Chun‐mei was the most athletic. She came from one of Shanghai’s wealthiest merchant families and lived in an imposing mansion near the French Club, which I passed daily on my way to and from school. Her father had spurned commerce for medicine and attended medical school in the United States, where Chun‐mei was born. Her mother was a well‐known artist and book illustrator. Being an only daughter, Chun‐mei was privileged in many ways.

  I first noticed Wu Chun‐mei when we played shuttlecock against each other one day during recess. A shuttlecock was a rounded piece of cork with feathers stuck on top. When the shuttlecock was hit to and fro with a racket across a net, the game was called badminton. At Sheng Xin, we sometimes used the shuttlecock to play a different game. We would kick it up and down and add up the number of kicks made without interruption. The girl with the highest number was the winner.

  I had always considered myself a skilful player, but my first game against Wu Chun‐mei turned into an exhibition featuring my opponent’s talent. Unlike the rest of us, who counted ourselves pretty lucky if we could kick the shuttlecock fifteen times in a row, Wu Chun‐mei could go on indefinitely. While kicking the shuttlecock frontways, sideways and behind her, she could also clap her hands, twist her legs and even turn her body all the way around.

  In due course, I became more and more impressed by Wu Chun‐mei’s athletic skills. She had strength, agility, co‐ordination and amazing prowess at all types of physical games, especially ping‐pong, badminton and volley‐ball. Best of all, she possessed a single‐minded fierceness, a sort of fearless loyalty towards her team‐mates. Like me, she also loved to read. Unlike me, she was able to bring to school an incredible variety of children’s books – many translated from foreign languages – which she generously lent to everyone.

  One morning, on her way to school in her father’s chauffeur‐driven car, she saw me plodding along, carrying my heavy book bag. She asked her driver to stop, and offered me a lift. Though sorely tempted, I had no choice but to refuse, saying with a laugh that I enjoyed walking. Chun‐mei made nothing of it until two weeks later. It had been raining very hard and the streets were flooded. There were typhoon warnings and school had been let out early. Many of the girls were stranded, waiting to be picked up by their families. Chun‐mei had phoned her father, who came at once in his car to fetch her. On their way home they saw me sloshing through ankle‐deep water.

  Wu Chun‐mei stopped the car and rolled down the window. ‘Who’s this lone small figure struggling along deserted Avenue Joffre braving the elements?’ her father asked. ‘How about a ride?’

  ‘No, no, thank you!’ I began, desperately clutching my book bag with one hand and my umbrella with the other. ‘It’s fun to walk in a storm like this . . .’ As I spoke, a gust of wind almost lifted me off the pavement. My umbrella turned inside out and I was blown sideways against a lamp‐post.

  Suddenly, Dr Wu got out of his car into the pouring rain, looking almost angry. ‘Don’t you know it’s dangerous to walk in weather like this?’ he asked. Then he physically bundled me into the back seat. I was drenched through and through from head to toe. The water in my shoes made a puddle on the car mat. Rivulets of water dripped from my hair, which was plastered against my head. I had no raincoat. My uniform stuck to my frame, and I was shivering. I knew I looked awful but felt I must keep up appearances. So I smiled, and spoke of the storm as if it were a great adventure. At the entrance to my lane, I insisted on getting out and walking to my house because I was terrified of getting into trouble for having accepted a lift. I simply could not run the risk of having Niang see me being driven to the front door in a car. They must have thought I was mad when I stepped back into the storm.

  Wu Chun‐mei and I became friends, and partnered each other when we played doubles in ping‐pong or badminton. She lent me her books, and I helped her with arithmetic. Though Chun‐mei excelled in English and spoke it without an accent, she was hopeless at maths, and often came under the teacher’s fire.

  Though her chauffeured car invariably awaited her when school finished, she often chose to walk with me until we reached her house, with her driver trailing behind at snail’s pace. In the mornings, if she happened upon me trudging along, she would order her driver to stop, and would hop out and accompany me all the way.

  In August 1945, when I was almost eight years old, America dropped the atom bomb on Japan. This ended the Second World War. America was the new conqueror.

  At school, we were given surplus C‐rations for our lunch, left by China’s new heroes, the US marines. We ate hard biscuits, canned meats and chunks of bittersweet chocolate. After each meal, we prayed and thanked our American allies for winning the war.

  Hollywood movies swept into Shanghai like a tidal wave. There was a craze for everything American. One day in September 1945, all the children in my school were bussed to the Bund to welcome the American soldiers. Along with my schoolmates, I cheered, waved welcoming flag
s, curtsied and presented bouquets. American minesweepers, cruisers and flagships clogged the muddy waters of the Huangpu River. Hotels and office buildings on the Bund were taken over by the US Navy and other American servicemen.

  Photographs of American movie stars adorned billboards and magazine covers. Clark Gable, Vivien Leigh, Lana Turner and Errol Flynn became household names. One schoolmate two years ahead of us in Form 5 actually received an autographed photo from Clark Gable, sent all the way to Shanghai from Hollywood, California. She was surrounded by half the school at recess. We were borne on a frenzy of excitement at the sight of the picture of the handsome actor, each of us clamouring to hold him in our hands and gaze into his dreamy eyes – even if just for a few seconds.

  About then, Wu Chun‐mei lent me a book entitled A Little Princess, translated from English into Chinese. She told me it was one of her favourites and had been written by an English author named Frances Hodgson Burnett. This fairy‐tale of seven‐year‐old motherless Sara Crewe, who started life as an heiress, turned overnight into a penniless servant girl and eventually changed her life through her own efforts, gripped my imagination as no other book had ever done before. I read it again and again, suffered Sara’s humiliation, cried over her despair, mourned the loss of her father and savoured her final triumph. I kept it so long that Wu Chun‐mei became impatient, and demanded its return. Coming from a secure and happy home, Wu Chun‐mei could not grasp the impact this message of hope had upon me. For the first time, I realised adults could be wrong in their judgement of a child. If I tried hard enough to become a princess inside like Sara Crewe, perhaps I, too, might one day reverse everyone’s poor opinion of me.