Inheritance Read online

  Precisely on the hour, Lo Dun arrived along with his mother.

  He was a slender man about fifteen years older than Yinan, with a long, serious face and a patch of gray in the left corner of his high forehead. Lo Taitai appeared to be a fierce crone, but Junan was pleased to see that she found it hard to walk. Soon she would be dead. Yinan wouldn’t long suffer under her torment.

  When introduced, Yinan bowed carefully and fixed her gaze upon the floor. Watching her, Junan felt a mixture of emotions. She wished that Yinan wouldn’t feel so miserable and timid, but she thought perhaps her sister’s shyness might be pleasing to the old woman. Lo Taitai had withered until the tendons stood out on her neck, but she behaved in the manner of a person used to getting her way.

  Lo Taitai looked Yinan up and down, letting her eyes rest on the face, the clothing, feet, and hands. Junan waited, confident, for she had personally seen to every detail of her sister’s appearance. She had fixed a bit of powder into the shuidou scar and it was almost invisible.

  Lo Taitai cleared her throat and spoke. “She was born in the Year of the Sheep,” she announced to no one in particular.

  “The Snake,” Yinan corrected her.

  The stiff lips closed in a line.

  Junan gave Yinan a warning glance, but her sister was studying the grain of the wood floor. She offered the guests tea, and was relieved when Yinan excused herself to fetch it.

  LO DUN PARTED on courteous terms. Her father was optimistic. But a week after the visit, Baoding wrote even more courteously that Lo Dun had withdrawn his interest. He had nothing against the family, but his old mother had objected to the match. She didn’t want her son to marry a woman born in the Year of the Snake; she believed a Snake woman would be too tricky for him. She would never have agreed to the meeting if she had known that Yinan was a Snake.

  When Junan read the letter, she knew that Yinan had displeased Lo Taitai by speaking.

  She told her father to shrug off this failure and continue the search, but he felt they had lost face. All of his friends had known of this attempt.

  He sent for Yinan. “Lo Taitai has decided she would like a bride born in the Sheep year,” he said.

  “Yes, Baba.” Yinan looked unmistakably relieved.

  Watching her, Junan was secretly pleased the marriage hadn’t worked out. Perhaps someone more to Yinan’s liking, a less intimidating person, might be considered. But Lo Dun had been a solid, well-connected man, in many ways a suitable match for both the family and Yinan.

  Junan felt obliged to speak. “You must become more pliant, Meimei,” she told Yinan. “Remember the pliant reed that bends in the wind.”

  “Yes.”

  For several seconds the two sisters stood looking at one another. Junan felt suddenly afraid. The still, pale image of her sister’s face rippled and blurred before her eyes, and it seemed that an unbearable sorrow hovered over them. She hurried out of the room.

  A few weeks later, her father showed Junan another letter.

  22nd Year of the Republic

  17 March

  Cousin and brother,

  You have been once acquainted with Mao Gao, in the silk business in Nanjing. It has been many years since his young first wife died of meningitis. He has recently decided to remarry, and I have taken the liberty of mentioning Yinan.

  I will offer my opinion that I do not consider it a bad thing for your daughter to marry a man in his late fifties, such as Mao Gao. An older man cherishes a girl and provides a steadying influence.

  Moreover, it is your situation that I am also thinking about. I am not unaware that there have been some recent instabilities in the cotton market. I believe Mao Gao is protected and can provide not only loans for your business aspirations to the north, but a crucial connection into the industry at a time when you will surely need it. Please reply immediately, as they are in some hurry.

  My best wishes to you for luck and prosperity in the coming Rooster year.

  Your brother-cousin,

  Baoding

  “He is too old,” Junan told her father.

  “You’re only a child. You don’t understand these things.”

  He explained that Mao Gao was a merchant of high caliber. He could hardly turn down a connection to this man. He had already telegramed his cousin and instructed him to proceed.

  Junan knew she shouldn’t openly disagree with him. She went to Mma’s room and mentioned the match. Surely Mma would cancel the plan.

  But Mma only shrugged. She had grown so old that when she shrug-ged, her puny shoulders seemed to part from her body. “All men are dogs,” she muttered. “An older dog will jump at the chance for something fresh.”

  This reply, not being a dissent, amounted to approval. If Mma approved, Junan could not gracefully object. She bowed her head and went to talk to Hu Mudan. She suspected that Yinan had somehow convinced the laundry woman not to starch or iron her clothes. This problem must be remedied, if Yinan was to marry.

  She fought against another bout of sorrow so fierce it squeezed her breath. Could it be that her father and grandmother knew best? Certainly, this marriage would be, in many ways, better than her own. Mao Gao would provide a generous living, and if she bore a son, Yinan would be cherished. Would Yinan become a youthful sacrifice to save the family finances? She tried to put the thought out of her mind.

  HER FATHER WROTE to his cousin, who wrote back that Mao Gao leaned in favor of the marriage, but wanted to see a photograph. This brought on a troublesome sequence of events. Yinan’s pink qipao had mysteriously vanished. Junan questioned her sister, the laundry woman, and the maid. None of them had seen it. She fumed at the new problem: Mao Gao was an older man who would want his future bride to wear traditional clothing. Yinan, who wandered around the house in a rumpled blouse and trousers, had only this one good traditional dress. Junan made Yinan try on a qipao of her own, but it didn’t fit properly.

  After a discussion with Hu Mudan, Junan decided that Yinan could have her picture taken in the dress she had planned to wear to Junan’s wedding. It was a Western dress, but feminine and expensive. Junan fussed over the shuidou scar on Yinan’s forehead, and in the end, her skin was smooth, although Junan knew all along what the photograph would reveal: an ordinary girl, awkward in a fancy dress, her features made plain by misery and embarrassment.

  The photographer asked Yinan to hold a long-stemmed paper rose. Halfway through the sitting, Yinan began to shiver. When the photographer was finished, she tugged Junan’s sleeve, and together they went to Yinan’s room, where she shed her dress and pulled on the same things she’d worn two hours before. Junan looked away from Yinan’s thin, childish body as it emerged from the shimmering yellow silk, then disappeared again under the shabby pants, undershirt, blouse, and vest.

  “You need to stop wearing these rags,” she said. “How will you get your husband to want you?”

  Yinan said something she couldn’t hear.

  “What is it?”

  Yinan lowered her gaze. For a moment Junan thought the conversation was over, but then Yinan persisted. “What is that like?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “To be wanted in that way.”

  Fitting two fingers under Yinan’s chin, she raised her sister’s face and frowned, stalling for time. “Why on earth do you want to know a thing like that?”

  Yinan shook her head.

  Junan felt she’d caught a bird in her hands. Yinan’s long lashes beat against her cheeks. “It is all right,” she said. “It’s fine. You’ll see, when it happens to you, I suppose.”

  “Maybe I won’t.”

  Junan smiled kindly. “That’s not true.” She thought about Yinan’s question. “It’s good,” she said. She paused again. “It makes him belong to you.”

  “Do you belong to
Li Ang, then?” Yinan sounded frightened.

  “No,” Junan answered. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But she wondered if her sister might have guessed her secret. Inside her chest of drawers, under a pile clothes, she’d hidden the fancy box of candies confiscated from Yinan. She was saving them for Li Ang’s New Year’s visit. She reminded herself there was no way Yinan could know.

  The first few times that she and Li Ang had made love, she had felt a moment of fear when he left behind his initial caution and began to work himself into her, forgetting who she was. Her own slender arms and legs were only a pittance against his strength. He had launched himself into her, like a boat into the waves, while in her mind she stood and watched from shore. But after a moment, she’d begun to feel pleased with the way that he thrashed and flailed, gasping against her, as if she were the answer for some desperate need. This physical need had given her a sense of power.

  She looked forward to his New Year’s visit. She wouldn’t admit it to Yinan, but she wanted him to come to her. Their last time together, she had begun to relish the weight of his body on her own, the warm, smooth skin over his muscles and bones, the movement of his body when he breathed. That time, when he made love to her, she had begun to have the physical sensation of going deep inside herself. Afterward, she lay awake and considered this feeling. It could not be love. But it was unlike anything she’d known. And she knew that this urge would be impossible to explore further without involving Li Ang: that she must ask something from him, however silently. She steeled herself against this request, this possible indebtedness. She took on her desire with clenched teeth. She could not imagine how it might end, or what it might be like to give in to this hunger, to yield.

  THE HOUSEHOLD BEGAN preparations for the Year of the Rooster. It was the first time Junan had been in charge of New Year, and she was abashed to learn how little money there was to spend. She compensated for the short funds by choosing the brightest, noisiest red azaleas and the largest lanterns. She piled the few dozen tangerines in such a way that the stack appeared larger than it actually was. She made Gu Taitai save money by buying the pig at the market and roasting it herself. The traditional chicken would be prepared by Gu Taitai. Hu Mudan said she had a source for chickens, promising Yinan that Guagua would be spared.

  A week before the holiday, she set three dozen eggs to steep in tea leaves, salt, and anise. She bought red paper and set Yinan to work with her calligraphy brush. Later, when she walked past Yinan’s door, she caught sight of her sister sitting on the floor folding a paper bird, surrounded by finished banners she had spread out to dry.

  On New Year’s Eve, their father called the sisters into Mma’s room.

  “Mao Gao has approved the photograph,” he said.

  From her bed, Mma muttered, “An older dog will jump at the chance.”

  Junan found herself unable to speak. She opened her mouth and closed it. Despite her preparations, the news had taken her by surprise. Finally, she thought of a question. “When will the wedding be?”

  “After the Harvest Festival.”

  Junan realized how soon Yinan would leave. She turned to her father and grandmother. Mma stared straight ahead with her clouded, almost unseeing eyes. Her father averted his gaze. She turned to Yinan. Yinan was pumping her head back and forth, back and forth, violently and soundlessly, as if she had swallowed something and could not breathe. Then she ran from the room.

  Somewhere in the house, the infant Hu Ran was crying.

  Junan excused herself and followed her sister. She struggled to collect her thoughts. It was a warm day and the air was filled with the odor of melting earth. She felt intoxicated, floating, and beneath this queer feeling there was an undertow of helpless grief.

  The door to Yinan’s room was closed. She knocked, but there was no answer. “Meimei,” she said. “Meimei, it’s me.”

  She bent toward the door. “Meimei,” she said, ”It’s me, Jiejie.”

  She pushed the door open.

  Yinan sat at her desk, head bent onto a pile of red New Year signs. Her shoulders shook.

  “Meimei, let me help you move these signs. You don’t want to get them all wet.”

  Still shaking, Yinan nodded. “Yes—Jiejie—”

  “Meimei, don’t cry. You still have almost nine months at home. Nine months is a long time.”

  “Don’t—make me—leave—”

  The room blurred for one dizzying wing beat. Junan struggled to collect herself. “I—will miss you too, Meimei, but Nanjing isn’t terribly far. You need to get married, you must be married—”

  “But Jiejie—”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Junan looked up. There was something familiar in the knock, peremptory, and loud. Both sisters straightened, turning toward the door, and in the next moment it opened, revealing a tall, lithe, handsome man wearing a khaki uniform. He stood there, holding back a little to assess the situation. Junan started. It was her husband. She hadn’t seen him since his visit in the fall. Now he looked very much like a stranger, and yet somehow alarmingly familiar and welcome. She felt her fingertips pulse and her cheeks begin to glow. She had a sudden, fierce desire to run to him and throw her arms around him with relief.

  Instead, she nodded and asked if he had eaten.

  THAT NIGHT, WHEN they were alone, Li Ang put his hands on Junan’s shoulders. In the dark she couldn’t see his body, nor did she reach for it, but she knew it by its shape and weight: his torso long, his shoulders strong and sleek like those of the man who pulled the ice wagon. She turned her face away. Although his skin was very warm, she suddenly shivered—she didn’t know whether it was from fear or desire, or perhaps from anticipation of this avenue to forgetfulness. She could smell their evening meal on his breath: chicken and ginger, sulfurous eggs, fish, and sesame oil. Beneath it all, there was his scent, familiar now, and when she detected it, she felt an involuntary loosening in her spine. As if he could somehow feel this, he began kissing her fervently on the mouth. She pulled away.

  He stopped. “What is it?” His voice frightened her; it was so low and kind.

  She couldn’t answer him.

  He put his hand on the back of her neck and stroked it; kindly, as one might stroke a miserable child.

  “What is it?”

  “Stop it—stop—don’t—” She couldn’t speak. If he didn’t stop touching her, she would cry.

  She had never thought of what her life would be like without Yinan: without the blink of her eyes, without her narrow, shuttered face, without the still gravity of her body as she sat to read or draw, without her clear voice always asking impossible or childish questions, without the smell and sound of her breathing, and the trusting beat of her heart.

  “What is it?”

  “It is Yinan—” She shuddered. “Yinan—”

  “What about Yinan?”

  His hand kept moving on her neck, gently and with patience. The touch spread through her and she found it difficult to keep herself from shaking.

  “Her engagement. She will be married—and then she will be gone—”

  Her voice broke. Ashamed, she looked away and fought to hide this from him. But now he was comforting her, stroking her hair. She must not give way. He was stroking her hair. He was caressing her neck and back. Now they lay close enough that nothing could have passed between them; she felt the heat under his skin, felt his ribs swell, then contract, with every breath. Around the bed, the ceiling and walls loomed darkly. Xiaoxin, she thought. Xiaoxin. Below, his knees and hands guided her legs apart. She could not see the square-cut top of his head. She searched his face for its expression, but she only saw the slice of white under his irises. She felt the mainspring of her body loosening. She fought to keep the sobs out of her breaths; she took huge shuddering gasps; she returned, again, to her sister, her sister’s hea
d moving helplessly back and forth. Asking, what is it like to be wanted?

  She pressed into him, seeking his weight, wanting to be buried.

  LATER SHE SLEPT, head heavy, mouth open, taking long, deep breaths. A lock of hair lay wet against her teeth. Li Ang lay next to her, watching the smoke unfurl from his cigarette. Sometimes he didn’t know what to make of her: such a private woman, so unwilling to lose control. At the sound of her involuntary cry of pleasure, so raw, so unexpected, some channel had been opened within him. He was a boy again, an errand boy, light-footed, filled with energy, fighting to clear a path for Corporal Sun. He lay and remembered it all: the glimpse of the grenade, the quick knowledge of what he must do, the moment of possibility, of fate lying open. His own surety, pushing Sun out danger. The flash of dazed gray light when the grenade exploded. Then the sensation of weightlessness, of his empty back. The corporal shouting for the medic. Then the corporal’s words: “That was meant for me, boy. Stay alive, and I’ll always help you after this.”

  Now the scars in his shoulder itched but he didn’t move for fear of waking her. He thought of his brother’s glance, affectionate, contemptuous, on the day when he had first come home in his lieutenant’s uniform. He wondered how Li Bing was getting along at the university in Beijing. He thought of Junan’s ragged voice, “and then she will be gone—” It seemed to him that Li Bing had never been more far away.

  “Wife,” he said. Then, “Junan.”

  There was no answer. For a moment he waited, feeling oddly bereft. Eventually, he reached over and put out his cigarette.

  Meanwhile, my mother’s limp and sleeping body held a secret: in this moment of weakness I had been conceived. When she let down her guard, her womb had opened and my father’s seed rushed into her. I was carried to full term and born in the early spring of 1933, the Year of the Rooster, only days after my great-grandmother Mma—sparing herself from the disappointment of the birth of yet another girl—drew her last resentful breath and let her soul depart from her body in a blur of bat-like wings. High above the house it hovered, before vanishing, with her last breath, into the other world.