By late afternoon, Edward’s face took on the faint bluish splotches we had dreaded. His lips were cold, his eyes were dry. Magic Gourd pulled back the sheet to replace it with a clean one. His legs were mottled gray. The darker tide was flowing up his legs. I called to him and said he would be cured by morning. “Do you believe me?” I held my breath when he sucked noisily for air. I could barely breathe. I was suffocating. But I refused to cry; that would mean defeat. I recounted for him all the wonderful moments that had bound us. I talked without pause to sustain the thread between us. “Do you remember the day we emerged from the cave and into that green heaven? I loved you then. Did you know that? Edward, do you remember?”
And then I realized I had been shouting. The room was quiet and I could hear with terrifying clarity the gurgle and hissing, the small bubbling, popping sound of bloody froth flowing from his nostrils, his mouth, and his ears. In the evening, just after sunset, when his face was as gray as the shadows, he gurgled once more and drowned.
I stayed with him all night. At first I could not release his hand. The life force might still be in his veins and I might be able to squeeze it back. But without air, he deflated, and he had hollows in his cheeks. His eyes sank, then all of him. His hand had turned cold. I could not press my warmth into his. “How can you be gone? How can you be gone?” I murmured. And then I wailed. “How can you be gone?” Agony still showed in his face and I was angry. Where was the peaceful departure that people claimed comes with death? I cried angrily then in despair and grief. I covered his face, and cried, imagining him, as he had been in life, not still, not quiet.
The door opened and light poured in. Magic Gourd looked stricken. I jumped up. How could I have forgotten about Little Flora! “Is she ill?” I cried. “Did she leave me, too?”
“She is with the amah in the other wing and not at all sick. But you cannot see her until you wash yourself completely. We need to burn your clothes and Edward’s, too—and the bedding, the towels, everything, including your shoes.”
I nodded. “Be careful that the servants don’t save the clothes for themselves.”
“Most of the servants are gone.” She said this so plainly I did not understand her at first. “They ran away after Edward died. Only three stayed: the amah, the menservants Bright and Little Ram, the chauffeur Ready. They had influenza the first time it came around, so they have no fear. I will have the men wash the body.”
Body. How unfeeling that word was.
“Use warm water,” I said, then left to draw my own solitary bath. Tears fell into the bathwater. When I arose from the bathtub, I became dizzy, and sat on the bed. I kept myself from crying with one thought: I had to appear calm when I went to Little Flora. I closed my eyes to gather my thoughts. She must always know she is safe and protected.
I awoke six hours later, in the afternoon. Edward was no longer in the bedroom. The sound of his voice was now silence. I wandered downstairs.
Magic Gourd came out from the dining room, where Edward now lay. She took me into the parlor. “You must say your farewell quickly. Bright said that in the Chinese Old City, they are stacking bodies and putting them into one large grave. Families cannot send their dead family member to their ancestral villages. You can imagine the wailing that broke out when they heard that. We don’t know what the foreigners are doing with the bodies, but we must take no chances that they will decide for us.”
It was too soon for Edward to leave. I would have delayed as long as I could, had Magic Gourd not taken charge. She had loved Edward and I knew she would be caring and wise. I was grateful I did not have to think about what to do. Bright and Little Ram had devised a coffin, using a large cabinet. They would use candle wax to seal the top and all the sides. They had already dug out the pond to make a grave. It was the spot where Edward and I sat on warm days, read to each other under the elm tree, kicked our feet in the pond to splash water on each other.
“The King of Hell came by to see how Edward was,” Magic Gourd said. “Here is the death certificate. I can’t read what the farting dog wrote.”
Pneumonia, secondary to influenza. He had admitted his mistake. He must have reported Edward’s death to the American Consulate and authorities of the International Settlement. The amah brought Little Flora to me. I examined her face and felt her forehead. Her eyes were clear and sought mine. I looked at her face once again, at her ears, brow, hair, and eyes that were Edward’s legacy.
Magic Gourd led me into the dining room, “ready to catch the baby,” she said, “if I fainted.” The large table was gone and the coffin stood in its place. Edward’s skin still had a gray pallor. He wore a suit that he had worn when we went for walks. I stroked his face. “You’re cold,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I apologized to him for every doubt I had ever had about his goodness, honesty, and love. I said that I once believed I was incapable of giving him love because I did not know what that was, only that I needed it. He showed me how natural it was to take it, and how natural it was to give. And now my heartache was unendurable, and that was proof that we loved each other completely. I turned Flora around so that she faced him. “Our daughter, our greatest joy, showed me I could love ever more deeply. I’ll tell her that you held her every day and sang to her.” The blue-faced man said nothing. That was not Edward. I did not want the torturous moments of the past two days to become what I remembered most strongly about him. I handed Magic Gourd the baby, and I went upstairs to the library.
I sat on the sofa across from its twin and recalled our conversations—his wit, his seriousness, his sense of fun, and even the dark moods he sometimes fell into when we talked about what he had called his soul and moral self. What was redemption? Where did he go when he left us? I spied the new journal he had started using just last week and held it against my chest. This was who he was. But it also was not. It was sad and beautiful knowledge that a person cannot be found elsewhere but in his own spirit. No one could possess it.
Before I reached the top of the stairs, I heard deep voices and a shrieking child. I hurried downstairs. Two Chinese policemen stood in the hallway. They each held on to an arm of my personal maid’s daughter, Mousie. The frightened girl was around ten years old, and had flinched at any sudden sound or movement. Magic Gourd and I had long suspected that her mother regularly beat her. The policemen shook her. The whites of her eyes showed. “My mother made me take it to the store,” she said with chattering teeth. “She said she would beat me to death if I did not.”
One of the officers said that the little girl had taken a valuable necklace to a jewelry store run by a man named Mr. Gao. The jeweler claimed he was immediately suspicious when he saw the necklace. He knew whom it belonged to. He took it to the police station so he would not be accused of stealing it. Although he appeared to be telling the truth, he was being held at the police station until his claims could be verified.
“Please,” Mousie cried. “Don’t let them kill me!”
“Someone here must describe the missing necklace,” the sterner policeman said.
Magic Gourd went to my room and took out the jewelry to see which piece was missing.
She came back. “The necklace is studded with small emeralds. Two curlicues join a third in the middle …”
The policeman brought out the necklace. Magic Gourd examined it for damage. She then scolded the little crying girl.
“She was born with a small brain,” I quickly explained to the policemen. “She thinks like a little child without any good sense. We have the necklace back, so no harm has been done. We’ll watch the girl and the jewelry more carefully. And I can assure you that Mr. Gao is someone we have known for many years and is very trustworthy.”
“The girl told us a foreigner died of a blue disease,” one of the men said gravely. “We do not handle matters concerning foreigners. But if it was influenza, an American doctor must examine the body and verify the cause, then report it to the American Consulate.”
“We already have a death certific
ate, signed by Dr. Albee with the American Hospital. He treated Mr. Ivory.”
The men asked to see Edward to verify it was a foreigner who had died and not a Chinese citizen. They stopped before reaching Edward. “Ai! The blue face,” one murmured.
An hour later, a detective from the British police station came, followed by a consular officer from the American Consulate. They offered brief condolences and apologies for the intrusion.
“Who is the deceased?” the American said.
“Bosson Edward Ivory III.” The words resounded like a death knell. I handed them the death certificate. They examined Edward and asked for his passport. I went to Edward’s desk, and before I gave it to him, I looked at his photo. So somber, so young. And then I saw below his name the word married. Under the words wife’s name, it said: “Minerva Lamp Ivory.” At that moment, I leapt into a new life.
The men scanned the passport.
“I am his wife, Minerva Lamp Ivory.”
They jotted this down. “May we have your passport?” the American said.
I hesitated.
“It is only a formality.”
I excused myself and went to my bedroom, supposedly to retrieve the nonexistent passport. I went through the motions of opening empty drawers, searching in my mind for plausible excuses.
I returned to them in distress. “My passport is missing. I’ve looked in the usual places, and it’s gone. One of the servants must have stolen it.”
“Please don’t concern yourself. As I said, it’s just a formality. If it is missing, we can help you get it replaced. Would you like us to notify the family?”
I thought fast. “It would be better that I do it. It will be such a shock to his father and mother. I need to use the exact words to soften the blow and let them know he did not suffer—and I wish that were true. I know they will also ask that Edward’s body be returned to their home in New York.”
“I’m sorry to inform you but that is not possible,” the consular officer said. “The bodies of those who have died of influenza cannot be transported outside of the city.”
“We had already heard, which is why I have made private arrangements. I need to tell his parents with great delicacy that we will bury him here at home. His body will stay within these garden walls.”
“You’re fortunate you have land for burial. Fifteen hundred Chinese have perished so far and are being buried in a mass grave. Some of the Chinese are throwing the bodies into the river. We’re concerned that the drinking water has been contaminated with influenza. Boil your water well. I also recommend you not eat fish.”
Little Flora began to fidget and whimper. I felt her forehead. I worried constantly that she might fall ill.
The British detective gave her a clown smile and rolled his eyes to make her laugh. She cried instead. “A pity to lose her father so young,” he said.
An hour after they left, we buried Edward in the garden under the large tree. At Edward’s gravesite, Little Ram and Bright spoke words of gratitude. Magic Gourd provided a bowl of fruit and lit a handful of incense sticks. The two men filled in the grave with dark moist earth. After they left, I dug up the violets that lined the pathway to the house, and I replanted them so that they covered his grave.
I turned to the familiar page in Leaves of Grass, and I read aloud in a steady voice.
“Not I, not anyone else can travel that road for you.
You must travel if by yourself.
It is not far. It is within reach.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.
Perhaps it is everywhere—on water and land.”
CHAPTER 8
THE TWO MRS. IVORYS
Shanghai
March 1919
Violet
After Edward died, I sat each day on the stone bench and sand to read to Little Flora, and talk to her about her father’s love for her, and she stared at me with a look of concentration, as if she understood what I was saying. On the fourth day, I heard pounding on the gate. I put down my book and opened the gate to find a solemn man who looked like an undertaker.
He removed his hat and introduced himself as Mr. Douglas of the legal offices of Massey & Massey, which represented the Ivory Shipping Company. “My deepest sympathies,” he said. “I am sad to meet again under these tragic circumstances.”
I searched my memory. I had gone to see the lawyer with Edward to determine whether Lu Shing’s letter, in which he offered me this house, was legally sufficient for us to later make a claim. But the man we saw then looked different from this man.
“I should have come sooner,” the man said. “It took time to draw up the documents. As you know, Mr. Ivory made financial arrangements for your daughter and you.”
I learned that Edward had written a letter to his lawyers and Little Ram had taken it to them. The date revealed it was six days ago, the day when he first felt ill, when he said he had no appetite. He had known already he would die.
The lawyer put the documents before me. Edward had stipulated that, in the event of his death, the entirety of his Shanghai bank funds was to be immediately transferred to a new account for his daughter, Flora Ivory. His wife, the mother of his child, would be given full authority as the signatory. This would be in addition to any sum provided later by inheritance.
Mr. Douglas leaned toward Little Flora. “What a beautiful child. I see the resemblance to both you and the late Mr. Ivory.” He handed me a sheet of paper covered with dark type and handwritten names and the sum of $53,765. “You need only sign here to accept.”
It was an astonishing sum of money, enough to last a lifetime. How wise that Edward had put the money in Flora’s name. She was his heir and the money could never be taken from her. I stared at the name at the bottom: Minerva Lamp Ivory. “I assume your name is spelled correctly,” the lawyer said. “That is the information the company lawyers have in their records. We only need to verify it with your passport.”
Edward would never have called Minerva the mother of his child. It would have angered him, as much as it did me. I wanted to declare the truth, but I knew that doing so would be dangerous.
“The name is correct, Mr. Douglas. But I lack the passport to verify it. A former servant stole it. I mentioned to an officer with the consulate that I would come soon to replace it … but it has been difficult.” Genuine tears fell. I could not speak.
“May we assist you and secure it for you?” Mr. Douglas said. “A new widow would hardly be expected to leave her house. The consulate can easily find the record of your passport and visa. A photograph is all that is needed.”
“You are too kind. However, I regret to say that I never registered my passport with the consulate. When I stepped off the ship, I was eager to see my husband and disheartened to see a very long line at customs. I spoke to a guard with urgent pleas to locate a WC due to nausea. It was wrong of me. But I saw no harm at the time whether I declared myself now or later. Edward and I were going to remedy that and have Little Flora registered as an American citizen as well. That’s when I discovered the passport was not in my drawer. I suspect the thief was a maid who had left a month before.”
“It is not the first time we’ve encountered this problem. American passports fetch a large sum of money. We can obtain a new one with the help of an officer I know at the consulate. He knows my word is trustworthy. I will personally vouch that you are indeed Minerva Lamp Ivory. I was witness to hearing Mr. Ivory introduce you to me as Mrs. Ivory, his wife. By the way, have you done anything further about your uncle and the house he wishes to leave you?”
It was only then when I realized that Mr. Douglas and I had indeed met. Since our last meeting, he had cropped his wild hair and shaved off his beard.
“We will record a birth certificate at the same time,” the beardless Mr. Douglas said. “What is the child’s full name?”
“Flora Violet Ivory,” I said without hesitation. “My husband chose the name.”
“A
very good name. Sweet and delicate. I need only your photograph. Do you happen to have one?”
I went to my bedroom and found a souvenir card for suitors and patrons. I was adorned in a slim sheath and was leaning provocatively against a pedestal in a studio. I carefully cut out the head and came back with a less racy photo showing the much-improved Minerva Lamp Ivory.
After the man left, I sat on the stone bench, dizzy from the effort of my ruse. I was an accomplished actress in the wiles within the courtesan house, but not in matters involving grief and the future of my child. Little Ram brought me tea. I asked him if he had seen Edward write the letter.
He nodded. “He told me not to tell you. He said it would upset you. I did not know what the letter said.”
“Was he very sick when he wrote it?”
“He had a fever and a headache. He asked me to bring him aspirin. But his mind was still clear.”
That night I saw a beatific vision of Edward writing his letter. He was glowing at first, and as he reached the end of the page, he began to fade until he joined the shadows. Suddenly he appeared again and was radiant. This time, when the image faded, I was left with a sense of peace I knew I could call upon. I allowed the possibility that I had fallen asleep and dreamed the whole scene. It did not matter. What I felt was true.