Chinese Cinderella Page 6

  Reluctant to relinquish my new‐found treasure, I begged to keep it for another two weeks. Laboriously and doggedly, I copied the book word for word into two exercise books during this grace period, committed parts of it to memory, and slept with it under my pillow until the manuscript became tattered.

  Though Wu Chun‐mei and I spent numerous school hours together, not once did I mention my family or hint at the presence of a stepmother. In many ways, I envied my friend. As much as possible, in front of her, I pretended that I had loving parents too. It was simply too painful to admit the truth because then the dream would vanish forever.

  During the spring term of 1946, when I was eight years old and in the third grade, Father took Niang, Big Sister, Fourth Brother and Little Sister north to reclaim his Tianjin properties. They stayed away for three months.

  It was a glorious spring and early summer. Though outwardly everything remained the same while my parents were away, in reality nothing was. The four of us left behind stepped back through time into a cheerful, buoyant and light‐hearted era which we had almost forgotten.

  My two oldest brothers started staying late after school to play with their friends. They refused to submit to any more head shaves, insisting on crew cuts as a compromise. They raided the refrigerator at will and ate whatever they fancied. They started taking an interest in girls, whistling after pretty ones the way the American boys did in Hollywood movies.

  One Sunday morning at breakfast, Big Brother pushed aside his usual congee and preserved vegetables and told the maid his palate needed a change.

  ‘Seeing it’s Sunday, how about a nice, hard‐boiled, salted duck egg?’ the maid suggested.

  ‘What does Sunday have to do with anything? I’m tired of preserved vegetables and salted duck eggs. Bring me a big omelette, made with lots of chicken eggs! Put some ham in it! That’s what I feel like eating.’

  ‘Young Master (Shao Ye )! You know that chicken eggs are not allowed. Cook has orders from above. You’ll get us all in trouble.’

  ‘If you’re too cowardly to talk to Cook, I’ll tackle the brute myself!’ Big Brother sprang up and stomped into the kitchen. Relishing his new role as young master of the house in the absence of Father, he ordered Cook to make him the ‘biggest omelette of his life’ with loads of ham and plenty of scallions. A battle ensued.

  ‘We have specific instructions from your mother that chicken eggs are intended only for those on the first floor,’ announced Cook haughtily, his whole posture oozing righteous indignation. ‘Besides, there are not enough eggs on hand to make such an omelette as you have in mind.’

  ‘Not enough eggs, eh?’ challenged Big Brother. ‘We shall see about that!’ He started a systematic search, beginning with the refrigerator and ending in the larder, retrieving every egg he could find. He then methodically broke them one by one into a giant bowl.

  Meanwhile, offended by Big Brother’s trespass on his domain and violation of his ‘orders from above’, Cook was saying frostily, ‘I’ll have to report this egghunt of yours. Just as I am going to mention to your parents about your “airmail letters”.’

  He was referring to messages sent to two pretty sisters who lived immediately behind us. Their second‐floor bedroom window faced the rear window of my brothers’ room, separated only by an alley‐way. The boys amused themselves by wrapping scribbled notes around hard candies, then using rubber‐band slings to catapult them across. The day before, an errant missile had unfortunately landed on the bald head of our neighbours’ cook, who had rushed over to our house to complain loudly to his counterpart.

  Chagrined but defiant, Big Brother blithely whipped up all the eggs, added ham and scallions, and made himself a king‐sized sixteen‐egg omelette. ‘You can inform on me all you want! But first I’m going to treat myself to a decent breakfast for once, whether they approve or not! As for your buddy, the thump to his head will probably stimulate his conk to sprout a full head of hair again! He should thank me for doing him the favour!’ With that, he sailed into the dining‐room with his omelette and emptied his plate with relish.

  Aunt Baba, who had been working full time as a bank teller, felt freer during this period to spend most evenings and weekends after work playing mah‐jong with her friends. Ye Ye grew close to Third Brother and me, and often escorted the two of us to picnics at Du Mei Gardens, a public park one tram‐stop from home.

  Cook would prepare wonderful sandwiches for us, inserting thick layers of eggs flavoured with mushrooms and ham into loaves of fresh, crusty French baguettes. I used to chase Third Brother along the winding paths of the meticulously manicured arbour, hide behind giant sycamore trees, and roll across lush green lawns which spread out as far as my eyes could see. Happy and relaxed, I’d watch Third Brother imitate Ye Ye in his Tai‐chi exercises; stand on tiptoe and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of famous players competing in Chinese chess; and listen to professional storytellers spinning yarns about kung‐fu heroes. Sometimes, if we were lucky, a band would be playing music from the domed pavilion in the centre of the park.

  We’d play for hours, pretending to be characters from Chinese folklore, taking turns as the hero or villain. When Third Brother was away from our two oldest brothers and Big Sister, he seemed to turn into a different person.

  ‘I like you much better when I play only with you,’ I confided one day. ‘You don’t order me around or make me be the bad person all the time when we play “Three Countries War”. You are fair while the others despise me.’

  ‘It all stems from our mama dying when you were born. Big Sister and our two older brothers knew her better than I did. I only remember her a little. Things were much nicer when she was alive. You made her go away.’

  ‘We all live in our big house and it’s full of people but it’s a lonely place,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to grow up and get away. I’ll take Ye Ye and Aunt Baba with me. You can come too if you like. It’s not only Niang. Big Sister and Second Brother are always picking on me too. They hate it when I top my class and Father praises me. Then they’re specially mean. They think I don’t know but I do.’

  ‘It’s pretty bad for me too, sharing a room with our two big brothers. When things don’t go well, they take it out on me. Big Brother yells at me and Second Brother beats me up and grabs my stuff.’

  ‘How were things different when our own mama was still alive? Do you sometimes think of her too?’

  ‘Of course! When she was with us, everything was just nicer and I remember feeling safe all the time. Wouldn’t it be splendid if we could go visit her where she is now? Away from our real home where I have to be careful not to say the wrong thing.’

  ‘But we can go visit her!’ I said. ‘All you have to do is close your eyes and imagine it. I have seen her place before. It’s so real I find it hard to tell whether I saw it or dreamed it. She lives in a magic garden high up in the clouds. Nothing in Shanghai can compare. It’s full of trees, flowers, rocks and birds. All children are welcome. If no one knows about her place and we keep it a secret, then they can never find us. I wrote it all down once and showed it to Big Sister. I asked her what our mama looked like, because I couldn’t picture her face. Big Sister said she didn’t remember.’

  ‘Big Sister! How can you confide your real feelings to Big Sister! How stupid you are! If you want to know about our mama, why don’t you ask Aunt Baba? As for Big Sister, don’t trust her! Don’t trust anyone! Be a cold fish, just like me. Never get involved. That’s my motto. I hurt no one. And no one can hurt me.’

  I thought over his advice. That evening, I broached the subject with my aunt. ‘Tell me what my real mama looked like. I have this key in my head which enables me to enter the secret kingdom where she lives, but I would like to see her photograph. I can’t picture her face.’

  ‘Your father has instructed me not to talk to you children about your dead mother . . .’ It seemed hard for Aunt Baba to utter the words ‘your dead mother’. ‘But I suppose you’re old enough n
ow to understand, there are no photographs of her. Shortly after your grandmother’s funeral three years ago, your father ordered all her photographs destroyed.’

  One week later, Shanghai was gripped by a relentless, blistering heatwave. Finally, Sunday came and there was no school. Ye Ye and Aunt Baba had gone to the Buddhist Temple. It was early afternoon and a heavy drowsiness shrouded the entire house. I had just completed my homework and was rereading my latest report card while relaxing on my bed under the mosquito net. Though the windows were wide open, there was no breeze.

  I was recalling the excitement in my classroom two days before, when the half‐term exam marks were read out. My classmates sat in rapt attention as Teacher Lin rustled some papers and looked for her glasses. I relived the triumph of hearing Teacher Lin announce, ‘Yen Jun‐ling* has topped the class again in every subject except art. I commend her for her hard work. Earlier this year the school submitted one of her compositions to the Children’s Writing Competition held by the Shanghai Newspaper Association. I am glad to report that she has won first prize for her age group among all the primary school students in Shanghai. Yen Jun‐ling has brought recognition to our Sacred Heart School.’

  Amidst loud clapping and the admiration of my peers, I stepped forward to shake hands with Teacher Lin. She handed me a special gold star to paste on my report card, as well as a copy of the newspaper in which my composition had been published.

  To everyone’s surprise and my delight, my ping‐pong partner Wu Chun‐mei received two special prizes: a medal for being the outstanding athlete of the whole school and a certificate for showing the most improvement in arithmetic. Wu Chun‐mei blushed with pleasure when Teacher Lin pinned the medal on her uniform. I whispered ‘champion’ and patted her on the back when she returned to her seat.

  ‘How wonderful life is at this moment!’ I thought as I fanned myself and wriggled my toes. With Father and Niang gone, the whole house seemed relaxed and carefree. If only it weren’t so hot!

  I was scanning the other children’s winning entries in the newspaper when the maid came in and announced, ‘Your brothers want you to go downstairs and play with them in the dining‐room. They have a treat for you!’

  I was dizzy with excitement as I crawled out from under my mosquito net and slipped on my shoes. ‘Are all three of my brothers playing in the dining‐room? Is Third Brother down there too?’

  ‘Yes, they’re all there.’

  How mysterious and delightful! My three big brothers beckoning me to join them! I ran downstairs eagerly, taking the steps two at a time, then sliding down the banister from the first floor to the ground floor. I burst in panting for breath.

  They had been drinking orange juice and put their glasses down when I entered. On the large, oval dining‐table was a large jug of juice and four glasses. Three were empty and one was full.

  ‘What a hot day!’ Second Brother began, bubbling with laughter. ‘I see you’re sweating! We thought you’d like a glass of juice to cool you down. Here, this one’s for you!’

  Something in his manner caused me to hesitate. To be summoned by Second Brother out of the blue and be treated so royally was cause for suspicion. ‘Why are you so nice to me all of a sudden?’ I asked.

  At this he took offence. Moving closer he jostled me. ‘It’s because you are again top of your class. In addition, you won that writing competition held by the Shanghai Newspaper Association. Seeing Father isn’t here, we decided to reward you ourselves.’

  ‘I don’t want it!’ I cried as I pushed the glass away.

  ‘We even put ice in it so you’ll cool down at once.’ He picked up the glass and the ice‐cubes tinkled. A film of moisture had condensed on the glass’s cool surface.

  Tempted, I turned to Big Brother. ‘Did you make it specially for me?’

  ‘We mixed it from this bottle of orange concentrate here. This is your prize for topping your class. Custom‐made just for you!’ My three brothers could hardly contain themselves with suppressed merriment.

  I could feel the humid, oppressive heat seeping through the walls. I eyed the cool glass of juice with its ice‐cubes rapidly melting in a shaft of sunlight slanting across the table. I lifted the glass and turned to Third Brother, my ally, knowing that he would never fail me. ‘Can I drink this?’ I asked, confident he could be relied upon.

  ‘Of course! Congratulations! We’re proud of you!’ Convinced, I took a generous sip of the ice‐cold drink. The disgusting smell of urine hit me like a mighty blow. My brothers had mixed their urine with the juice. Through the mirror hanging on the wall, I could see them rolling on the floor with hysterical laughter.

  I ran upstairs to the bathroom to wash out my mouth, knowing I had been duped. Sweat poured down my face and mingled with my tears as I sobbed quietly into the sink. In the suffocating heat, I was shivering.

  Meanwhile, my brothers had already forgotten all about me. I could hear them in the garden playing with Jackie and kicking a ball against the wall. Pong! Pong! Pong! Woof! Woof! The raucous sound of their laughter came drifting up through the window.

  Why was I crying? Surely, I was inured by now to their malice. What was it that really bothered me? Their treachery and betrayal of my trust? No, not quite, it was more complicated. Did Third Brother truly understand what he was up against? By wanting to have things both ways and straddling the fence, was he aware that each compromise would chip away at his integrity? Yes! It was the loss of the nicest parts of Third Brother which saddened me.

  Next morning, on my way to school, Wu Chun‐mei came out of her garden as soon as she saw me. She challenged me to a numbers game played with our fingers as we walked along, trailed as usual by her chauffeured car.

  At a red light, an American jeep stopped beside us. Two tall blond US sailors in smart, white, sharply creased uniforms shouted out in English, ‘Little girls, do you know how to get to Avenue Joffre?’

  I said nothing because my English was poor and I was shy. But Wu Chun‐mei answered in her best American English, ‘Actually, you’re on Avenue Joffre. It’s a very long street which goes on and on.’

  They were delighted and astonished. ‘Gee, thanks!’ One of them said, ‘Here, you two, take this!’ And he handed Wu Chun‐mei a large basket of luscious red persimmons.

  During recess, we examined our windfall and shared the fruits among our friends. Though my classmates often brought snacks, I never dared accept because I knew I could never reciprocate in kind. This time, however, things were different. Half the fruit had been given to me.

  Though bright red and perfectly formed, the persimmons felt hard and unripe. ‘Maybe we should keep them in our desks and let them ripen before we eat them,’ I advised. ‘Raw persimmons are so puckery on the tongue . . .’

  ‘You’re too cautious!’ Wu Chun‐mei said. ‘There are two types of persimmons. The Fuyu persimmon is supposed to be eaten when it’s like this. They’re crispy and sweet, just like apples.’

  ‘All right!’ Lin Tao‐tao said. ‘You take a bite first, Wu Chun‐mei!’

  Wu Chun‐mei took a big bite. ‘Delicious!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just as I thought!’

  Reassured, we each bit into our fruit – only to pucker up in total disgust. But Wu Chun‐mei looked so impish and mischievous that we soon all burst out laughing.

  During English class later that afternoon, we had a special visitor. An impressive‐looking middle‐aged American officer came in uniform to give us a talk on Pearl Harbor. He was a chain‐smoker and our whole class was fascinated as we watched him. While his sentences were being translated by our English teacher, he would take a deep drag on his cigarette and, after an interval, let the smoke slowly escape from his nostrils.

  At the end of his speech, we clapped politely. He then asked if there were any questions. There was a pause.

  ‘Surely,’ he coaxed, ‘one of you young ladies must be curious about something!’ He took another drag on his cigarette. We stared at the tendrils of smoke coming
out of his nose.

  Finally, after another embarrassing lull, Wu Chun‐mei raised her hand.

  ‘Now, here is a brave young girl!’ he exclaimed. ‘What is your question, my dear?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Wu Chun‐mei asked in her flawless English. ‘But can you make the smoke come out of your ears too?’

  Chapter Eleven

  PLT

  Not long after Father and Niang returned from Tianjin, Mr and Mrs Huang came to visit. They brought gifts for all seven of us children in a large cardboard box with several holes punched in the lid. Before her marriage, Mrs Huang had worked for a few years at Grand Aunt’s bank, sharing a booth with Aunt Baba and our real mama. The Huangs therefore knew of Father’s first marriage and the existence of all seven children.

  This was highly unusual. Most of Niang’s friends were unaware that she had five stepchildren. Being only eleven years older than Big Sister, Niang was reluctant to admit she was a stepmother. When asked, she often gave the impression that Father had only two children – Fourth Brother and Little Sister.

  When we opened the gift box from the Huangs, we were delighted to find seven little baby ducklings. As usual, Fourth Brother picked first, followed by Little Sister, Big Sister, Big Brother, Second Brother and Third Brother. By the time my turn arrived, I was left with the tiniest, scrawniest baby bird. I picked her up, cupped her in my hand and carried her gingerly into my room. The little duckling cocked her head to one side and looked at me with dark dewy round eyes. She waddled unsteadily and pecked the floor, looking for worms and seeds. She seemed so helpless with her soft yellow feathers, slender twiggy legs and small webbed feet. One gust of wind and she would be blown away. I felt very protective.

  From that moment, I took the duckling to my heart. For the first time, I had a pet of my very own. At school, I proudly described my duckling to my classmates. As I spoke, I felt a warm, tender glow spreading all through me. I named my duckling Precious Little Treasure (Xiao Bao‐bei (). Wu Chun‐mei advised me to call it PLT for short. I couldn’t wait to rush home from school, carry PLT to my room, bathe and feed her, and do my homework with PLT wandering between the beds and my desk. It comforted me to know I was needed.