But then she met Chun Chi, with her bright, moist eyes, clear as a young girl's. Her movements had an easy pride, beautiful and cold, her tiny body seeming to hide huge secrets. Auntie Lan was moved by a powerful curiosity to enter her world. The reason she stayed all this time, she said, was because my pitiful appearance made her heart ache. But I knew that wasn't the real reason.
All this time, Auntie Lan worried away at the connection between me and Chun Chi. A normal woman taking in another's child usually tries to hide the fact that it's not her own flesh and bone, but Chun Chi never wanted to be my mother, had always been remote. This puzzled Auntie Lan — surely a blind woman adopts a child in order to have someone to bury her. Why deliberately distance this child from herself?
I knew this wasn't Chun Chi's intention; it was Auntie Lan who hoped I'd be around to bury her. She had come here, far from her village, to be married to a man who died early, leaving her childless. Meeting an orphan such as myself seemed like destiny, especially one so obedient. No one paid attention to me when I was little, she said, but I didn't fuss or cry for attention. I was happy to be left alone and not bother her, as long as I was fed and clothed.
Auntie Lan was good to me, but I never thought about returning her kindness. Perhaps because her goodness was of the trivial, commonplace variety, dissipated amongst everyday things, impossible to refine or elevate. Or perhaps even at this early age I could see the direction of life's river, and knew she was no more than a tributary that would quickly dwindle.
Chun Chi was the main channel of my life. Something deeper than a blood connection bound us together. I was sure of this.
3
Chun Chi spent most of her life on the boat between China and the South Seas. Every few months, the ship docked at the harbour of our little city, and she came home for a little while. Each time she brought a heavy wooden case, which she hired a dockhand to carry home. At the sound of the man energetically banging our knocker — tu tut tu — I came flying from my room in the east wing to stand in the hallway.
She always came in through the vestibule, Auntie Lan guiding her. Seeing her approach, my heart beat very fast. She wore a faded purple dress of coarse cotton fabric. The room seemed to dim with her arrival. I looked at her intently. Her hair had acquired a comb, shaped like the new moon, gold inlaid with pearls — surely a gift from a passenger, which led me on to other thoughts.
She listened as Auntie Lan carefully moved the wooden case to her room, before sitting at the eight immortals table. I stood before her, my head lowered, afraid to meet her gaze directly for fear of causing offence, even though she was blind.
After so long apart, we had nothing to say to each other. Other people have no need of silence when they reunite, the sight of each other being enough to awaken deep feelings. But we had nothing of the sort. She could not see the emotion in my eyes.
Chun Chi was blind from before I was born. She had never seen me, nor held me since I was an infant. She had no idea if the boy standing before her was tall or short, fat or thin. She could not see how pale prolonged loneliness had made him. And yet, unloved as he was, he grew to be tall and well-proportioned.
She usually returned to her room before I could summon the courage to speak. She would not emerge for a long time, and no one was allowed to enter. Knowing this, I followed her, more desperate and fearful than ever to say something.
At the doorway, she stopped and felt for her trunk, which she lifted and slowly carried into her room. Auntie Lan stood behind me, also gazing in her direction. When the door was safely shut, Auntie Lan's mouth twitched. "Can't wait to get her hands on her darlings." After years of watching closely, Auntie Lan still could not determine what Chun Chi did with the seashells she brought back from so far away.
Chun Chi's closed door mesmerized me. When would it open again?
When Chun Chi was at home, I never wanted to go out of doors, not even to school. But Auntie Lan wouldn't allow me to play truant — that would make Chun Chi unhappy.
The road from the schoolhouse was always too long. I sprinted through the alleyways, startling neighbours who normally saw me walking slumped, lethargic, now suddenly as nimble as a deer. The front door was ajar and I carefully pushed it open, my heart suspended in mid-air. I ran to her door only to see the black emptiness of her room, the half-stalk of rosemary in her doorway, still smouldering. Just like that, my heart cooled, and I walked slowly back down the hallway. Auntie Lan had already cleared the eight immortals table, removing the white porcelain cup that only Chun Chi was allowed to use.
All my energy went and I sat slumped on the doorstep. My heart repeated to itself: she is gone. I stuck my legs out, burying them in the luxuriant phoenix-tail grass that covered the courtyard.
The crickets clamoured as the grass blew wildly. The sky grew dim, scarred by lightning, and rain fell in dashes. The earth beneath my feet became soft and released its scent. The breath of summer came in a rush, invigorating even those who a minute ago had given up on this world. Would the passengers on board the ship, at this moment, be stretching out their hands to feel the first cool threads of rain?
4
By contrast, Auntie Lan couldn't wait for Chun Chi toleave, and would have preferred if she never returned.
