“My dear Violet,” Edward began. “I claim no excuses that override immorality. I expect no forgiveness. I can never adequately make amends. I can only try to add to your comfort …” He said that I could stay in the house as long as I wished. He would provide for the expenses and the servants there. He wanted me to inherit the house, but it would require acknowledging that he was my father. If I were willing to do so, he would have the documents drawn up for his will. He closed by saying I should let him know if I ever wanted to meet him, even if it was only to vent my anger. But unless I said so, he would not return to the house and cause me further upset. The envelope showed the letter had been posted from Hong Kong. It was signed: “Yours, Lu Shing.”
“I will do whatever you wish,” Edward said.
“Bastard. He said nothing about my mother. He did not say whether she or he knew I had been alive all these years.” I was quickly overcome with exhaustion and Edward took me inside so I could sleep. The next morning, Edward told me he had written a letter to Lu Shing demanding he tell me the answer to those questions. He often found ways to show me he loved me and would protect me, just as he had promised he would. I put my arms around him and clung to him like a child.
“I don’t really want to know the answers,” I said. “I’ve already gone through every possible reason and circumstance why my mother did not return to save me, and none would be adequate to explain why, unless he said my mother had died before she ever set foot on American soil. And even if he told me that, I could not be certain if he was telling the truth. All that pain consumed me for so long. I don’t want its hold on me again. If I change my mind later, I will ask you to read me what the coward says.” In keeping with my wishes, when Lu Shing’s second letter arrived, Edward put it away.
I waged a small war with myself over what to do with the house. My immediate impulse was to leave and also to refuse the inheritance. I tried not to think of the comfort we had settled into. Of course, one of the first things I did was to remove the loathsome painting from the bedroom. By necessity, we stayed on, so I could recover fully from illness. And then it was because I had daily morning sickness and the upheaval of moving might be harmful to the baby. I was already worried that my illness might have affected her health. I finally made peace with living there for reasons of fear: If Edward’s parents ever tried to cut off his funds, as they once had, we would be cast into poverty, without a roof over our heads. I told Edward we would stay.
He later admitted that he was relieved because of worries he had for our future child. If anything happened—if he became ill and he was not around—where would the baby and I live? We went to the lawyer for the Ivory Shipping Company to ask for general advice. He was an odd-looking man with a bushy head of hair, and an equally bushy beard and eyebrows that were as thick as squirrels’ tails. Edward introduced me as his wife, “Mrs. Ivory,” and explained that I had an eccentric American uncle in Soochow who had sent me a letter saying that he wished to leave his house to me.
“We don’t want to appear avaricious and ask that the bequest be placed in his will,” Edward said. “Would his letter be sufficient when the inevitable comes to pass?”
The lawyer believed a will was best, but he said that the letter might be sufficient if it was dated, in his handwriting, and there were no descendants, like some ne’er-do-well son. When we returned home, we found that Lu Shing’s two letters were indeed dated, and Edward put them in a safe place where no one but he could find them.
We lived in our little world, in the cozy intimacy of married life. When the weather turned cold, we lay quietly in each other’s arms in front of the fireplace, knowing what the other was thinking, about happiness now and in the future and the luck that we had found each other. We read to each other in the library—from the newspaper, a novel, or Edward’s favorite book of poems. On rainy days, we played the Victrola and danced while Magic Gourd watched. Edward would always gesture to her to take a few whirls with him. She, in turn, would always refuse the first request, and only after Edward had pointed to me and gestured that my stomach was too large to dance to such a fast song, would she happily relent. It was amusing to watch them communicate in a guessing game of gestures and facial expressions, which often led to hilarious misunderstandings. Edward once pantomimed licking and biting into ice cream on a stick and our walking to the new shop down the road that sold the confection. Magic Gourd thought a stray dog had been eating food on his plate and ran off with it when he saw Edward coming. I wound up having to translate. We found boxes with various games and amusements, including table tennis. Magic Gourd proved to be quick and agile, and Edward was surprisingly clumsy and slow. He did not mind that we often broke into laughter. I learned later that he was actually quite skilled, but he had loved seeing us so happy. We took walks twice a day to reach the cafés where customers discussed the latest news about the war. Victory was drawing near and we all felt impatient for war to be over. We talked in bed about our childhoods, recalling everything we could, so that we would feel we had known each other all our lives and more deeply than other people had. We debated whether it was Chinese Fate or American Destiny that had brought us together. Our meeting each other could not possibly be as random as two leaves from two trees being blown together.
The only blemish in our perfect life was Lu Shing. My rage toward my mother and him used to consume me. They could never sufficiently compensate me. How could they return the life I should have had? But now I had the life I always would have wanted. I would never forgive Lu Shing. But while living so blissfully in his house, I no longer dwelled on his despicable actions that had changed my life.
THE EPIDEMIC WAS over by the summer of 1918. And when the war ended in November, we had a second reason to celebrate. Although the International Settlement had claimed its neutrality during the war, now the flags of different nationalities flapped their colors to signal the world was at peace. Westerners broke out the French champagne they had been saving, and people on the streets exchanged kisses with strangers. They also exchanged germs, and those kisses were later blamed when a new wave of influenza broke out—and it was worse in strength than the last. Shanghai was not as affected as other places in the world. That was the report we read in the newspaper, which also noted that, similar to the last time, the greatest toll was on young men and women. Oddly enough, those who were the most physically fit were the most likely to be struck down.
Magic Gourd and I had already suffered influenza and were no longer at risk of infection. But Edward had escaped the first round. I was more than seven months pregnant, and out of fear for our coming baby, we had everyone in the house practice strict hygiene. If Edward and I went outside of the house, he wore a mask and we avoided crowded cafés and restaurants. Despite those precautions, Edward fell ill, and I flew into action, having already read up on all that was needed to treat the patient. We boiled water sprinkled with camphor and eucalyptus. We made him drink hot tea and a broth of bitter Chinese herbs. We had at the ready wet towels to cool the fever, most of which was rejected by Edward, who said his symptoms were so mild they suggested he had been too much a weakling to qualify for the endangered category of the physically fit. He was in bed for only a day and bragged that influenza was no worse than the common cold. He recovered quickly, easing our worries. Now that he, too, was protected from ever getting the flu again, we would not have to worry about passing it on to our baby.
On a frigid bright day in January, our baby girl was born. The Paris Peace Conference started the same day, and we took this as a sign she would be a calm baby. That proved to be true. She was fair-colored and resembled Edward more than me. Her eyes were hazel and she had tufts of light brown hair. I claimed the whorl on the back of her head was mine, as well as the faint blue birthmark on her rump, which many Chinese babies had. The curves and lobes of her delicate leaflike ears matched Edward’s. I claimed her rounded chin. Edward said that when she frowned in her sleep, she looked like me when I was worried. I sai
d that when her nostrils flared, she looked like him when food arrived on the table. Edward pronounced her “the most perfect replica of the most perfect woman in all eternity.” And upon receiving that love-soaked endearment, I asked him to choose our baby’s name. He thought for two days. The name would be part of our new family legacy, he said. Bosson would not be her inheritance.
”Her name shall be Flora,” he said at last. “Violet and Little Flora.” He cradled her and brought his face close to her sleeping one. “My little Flora.”
I was secretly stricken. In courtesan houses, we were known as “flowers.” I had had mixed feelings all my life about my name. Violets were the flower my mother loved, a meager-faced one, easily trampled, that grew with little care. I had changed my name over the years, from Violet to Vivi and Zizi, and many nicknames in between. Now it had returned to me as Violet. It was like fate. I could not permanently change it. In the library the other day, I had been listening to an opera aria, the loveliest of them all. I read the accompanying pamphlet tucked into the sleeve of the record. It was sung by the character Violetta, a courtesan, it said, and then added “and at this stage of her life, a fallen flower.”
Edward was singing sweetly in his tenor voice—”Flora! O Sweet Little Flora! Dewdrop in the morning. Rosebud in the afternoon … Look at her eyes!” he said. “See how alert they’ve become when I say her name. She recognizes it already. Little Flora, Little Flora.” How could I ask him to choose another name?
We could not bear to have Little Flora away from our sight and decided she would remain with us rather than in the nursery with the amah. In the middle of the night, I woke to her soft complaints and grunts, and lifted her from the bassinet by my side of the bed, and put her to my breast. I sang softly to her: “Flora, O Sweet Little Flora, dewdrop in the morning, rosebud in the afternoon.” She quieted and her eyes drifted until she found mine and there she remained. In that small moment of recognition, I found my greatest joy.
March 1919
In March, the Spanish Influenza returned yet again. “The war is over, and this should be over as well,” Magic Gourd said. Everyone was saying this one was more powerful than the last. Fewer were infected, but those who did fall prey suffered more and died faster.
Edward, Magic Gourd, and I had already overcome influenza, so we were grateful we were not in danger. But Little Flora, who was only two months old, had never been ill with any malady, and we were exceedingly cautious. We required everyone in our household to wear gauze masks whenever they left the house. Before coming into the house, they had to drop their used masks into a pot by the door, so they could later be boiled clean and dipped into camphorated water, and made ready for use again. When we took Little Flora for fresh air walks, we placed a covering of camphorated gauze over the baby carriage. We avoided crowded places. Large warning signs appeared everywhere: big fines would be levied against those caught spitting, coughing, or sneezing in public rooms or on tramway cars. Two of the boys’ academies and one of the girls’ closed due to outbreaks in the dormitories. Along Bubbling Well Road, we passed stores and stalls offering remedies to prevent influenza or to cure it. The best way to avoid sickness, we learned, was to drink Dr. Chu’s elixir eight times a day, or to gargle with Mrs. Parker’s Potion, or to bathe in hot onion water. Those who took ill should rest and drink alcohol, the best whiskey being the most effective.
Two weeks later, we learned that only a hundred or so foreigners in the International Settlement had died, and at least half of them were Japanese. The schools reopened. There were no piles of bodies along the sidewalks, only piles of unsold masks. We lost our concern and our caution.
When several days later Edward developed the sniffles, he was the first to say he should not go near Little Flora. In any case, he had no appetite and would not join us for supper.
Since I was vulnerable to getting a cold, Edward and I each slept in our private bedrooms that night. His manservant Little Ram set a glass of whiskey on his bedside table. The next morning, when I went to Edward, I was alarmed to see that his eyes were rimmed red and his face was pale and sweaty. He claimed he was warm because the evening was humid. The weather was, in fact, chilly. He coughed as if choking and explained that Nanking Road was flying with dust from buildings that were being torn down. He had a headache from the pounding effort of coughing.
“It’s Chinese disease,” he joked. The Americans and British called all sorts of maladies “Chinese disease,” from stomach ailments to anything puzzling, especially if it led to death.
In the afternoon, I went to Edward’s side and was shocked to see he had become more feverish. He was coughing so violently he could barely find his breath or balance to stand. “I already told you. It’s Shanghai swamp fever,” he managed to joke. “Please don’t worry. I’m going to lie in a cool tub.” An hour later, he asked me to summon a doctor at the American Hospital, but only so he could get medication for his cough. He required the help of two servants to rise out of the tub and return to his bed.
Dr. Albee arrived. Magic Gourd recognized him. “King of Hell,” she called him. She told me she would also send for the same Chinese doctor who had treated us when we were ill. He would likely have better remedies than this one, who has said there was not much that could be done, except tap your toes and twiddle your fingers.
I assured him that Edward had overcome influenza during the second outbreak, so this was another kind of illness. Typhoid? He peered into Edward’s mouth, did a few more inspections of his nose and ears, felt around his neck, thumped and listened to his back, then said with great authority: “The patient has an infection of the adenoids.” He measured laudanum from a larger bottle into a smaller one. He gave Edward a capful to ease the cough and an aspirin for the fever. He also prescribed fresh sheets, since this would contribute to a sense of ease rather than dis-ease and thus hasten a return to health. To enable Edward to breath more comfortably, he used a syringe to draw out some of the mucus. As he prepared his instruments, he said to Edward that he should have the troublesome adenoids removed once he recovered from the infection.
“It promotes good health and a clear mind,” he said cheerily. “Removal can also cure conditions such as bed-wetting, poor appetite, and mental retardation. Everyone should be rid of them. If you and your wife decide to have them removed, there is no one better than I to do the operation. I’ve removed them from hundreds of patients.”
He inserted a bulb syringe into one of Edward’s nostrils. When the doctor looked at what he had withdrawn, his expression changed to dark puzzlement. It was thick and tinged with blood. He reassured me that it was not serious. Edward coughed up sputum. It, too, had streaks of red.
The doctor babbled on as Edward coughed violently and tried to catch his breath. “This sort of bloody discharge is typical,” Dr. Albee said in a quick professional tone. “The tissue becomes irritated and bleeds.” He said we should feed him plenty of tea, no milk. I was glad to see the very cheerful doctor leave.
I sat by Edward’s bed and read aloud from the newspaper. An hour later, bloody foam bubbled out of Edward’s nostrils. “Damn the adenoids!” I cried. “Damn that doctor!”
Magic Gourd flew in and saw Edward. “What’s the matter with him?”
I was shaking and breathing so hard I could barely speak between breaths. “Edward told us last fall that he had a touch of influenza. He said it was no worse than a common cold. I think that’s what it was, not influenza. He was never protected from it.”
I wanted Magic Gourd to tell me he was already better and would be well by evening. Instead, her eyes widened with fright.
The Chinese doctor took one look at Edward and said, “It’s Spanish influenza and it is the fierce one.” He added, “We’ve had many more cases than your American doctors have seen—fifteen hundred so far. Of those I have seen hundreds. There is no doubt, it is influenza.”
He told a manservant to remove Edward’s pajamas, which were damp from the fever. He ordered a
maid to bring clean cloths, large cloths, twenty of them. The doctor turned to me and said, “We can try.”
Try? What did he mean by this frail word try?
“If he is better by tomorrow morning, he has a chance.” He doled out medicine in packets, which we were supposed to boil for an hour.
The doctor twisted hair-size acupuncture needles into Edward’s body. Soon Edward’s rigid grimace softened into mindless surrender. He breathed in a regular fashion, more slowly and deeply. He opened his eyes, smiled, and whispered hoarsely, “Much better. Thank you, my love.”
I wept with relief. The day was new, the world was different. I took his hand and kissed his damp forehead. We had turned the corner on this crisis. “You scared me,” I gently complained.
Edward rubbed his throat, “It’s trapped in here,” he whispered.
I stroked his hand. “What is?”
“A piece of meat.”
“My darling, you had no dinner. There is nothing in your throat.”
The doctor said in Chinese. “A sensation of something lodged in the throat—many complain of that.”
“What can be done to remove what’s in his throat?”
“It is a symptom.” He looked grave, then shook his head.
“It’s in here,” Edward said, now gasping as he pointed to his neck. He looked at the doctor and said in English, “Doctor, if you would be so kind. Please give me some medicine I can swallow.” The doctor answered in Chinese. “You will not suffer too much longer. Be patient.” Before the doctor left, he said that if a blue color spread throughout his body, it was a very bad sign.
His hair was so damp from the fever it looked as if a pail of water had been poured over his head. He was no longer burning; he felt cool. His eyelids were slack, one lid lower than the other. “Edward,” I whispered. “Don’t leave me.” He turned his head slightly but could not find my face. I set my hand in his palm. His fingers moved. He mumbled without moving his lips. I thought he said, “My dearest love.” We laid poultices over his body, drew the poisonous air out of his lungs with hot cups. He took one hundred tiny pills and they rolled down his tongue. He immediately coughed them out with bloody sputum. He took small breaths, fast and shallow, and when he exhaled, it sounded like fluttering paper in his chest. We sat him up, and tapped his back, then slapped and pounded with our fists to remove the sputum of demon influenza. I tended to him without feeling in my body, seeing and hearing nothing but Edward, willing him to stay alive. I buoyed him to take in the air, another gulp and another. I must not be inattentive, not for a moment. He depends on me. I remained steadfast and sure, sitting near him, praising him as his chest rose. He would wake from senselessness, open his eyes every now and then, and look at me, surprised to see me. I heard him mumble, “What a fearless girl you are,” and then, “I love, I love …” But he drifted off again.