The Kitchen God's Wife

  If I had thought about this more carefully, I would have realized: My aunties did not care if I was the oldest, Peanut the youngest. Peanut was the favorite. Everything they gave to Peanut was always better: better clothes, better praise, more spending money, better charms for attracting good luck, more remedies when she became sick. As I have already said, they did not mistreat me. They just treated Peanut better. So why was I so stupid? I should have known—if they were giving me to Wen Fu’s family, then maybe it was not such a good deal.

  And then something happened that made me think all these good things would go away. My aunties said they were taking me to Shanghai to see my father, to ask his permission for my marriage. They showed me his letter, telling us when we should come, only that, no words of congratulations. Back then, we had no telephone lines connecting Shanghai to the island, and this letter had come by messenger, not the regular mail service. So the letter I held in my hand seemed very serious.

  Imagine with your heart how I felt. I had not seen my father for almost twelve years, ever since he sent me to the island. My aunties had never taken me to see him all those times we visited Shanghai.

  He had never written to me, had never come to see me on the island or at my boarding school. So I did not know whether he would be mad or happy to see me. I did not know whether I should be fearful or happy to see him.

  That morning Old Aunt, New Aunt, and I took our baths early. We put on our best clothes, bright silk dresses and jackets. We bought first-class tickets for the two-hour motorboat ride down the river to the Shanghai harbor. When we got off the boat, a long black automobile with a driver was already outside the gate, waiting to take us to my father’s house on Julu Road. Everything was like a happy fairy tale.

  But as we walked up the pathway to the house, I knew we had made a terrible mistake. Our clothes were too bright, too showy, letting everyone know how unimportant we were. And then the door opened, and I was standing in the big hallway of a house I once lived in but could not remember.

  The house was ten times bigger and better than our place at the Mouth of the River. Or maybe you could not even compare it that way. It was the kind of place where everything you saw you wanted to touch, yet you were afraid to move one step in case you knocked something down. Next to me were two tall ornate stands that held small white statues, one of a hunter chasing a deer, another with two girls walking in English dresses. One sneeze, one cough, one word said too loud, and surely you would break those statues.

  I was looking at my feet, wishing I could stoop down and wipe the dust off my new shoes. That’s how I came to stare at the white marble floor.

  I suddenly remembered the pattern running through it—my mother once told me they were jewels left by a river flowing over the marble rock. And in front of me, on the surface of the floor, different-colored lights were dancing. The shadows of colorful fish from the same river, my mother had said.

  And then I looked up to see where the colored lights came from—the big stained-glass window at the top of the first stair landing, the flowers, trees, and sky in the glass. And as I struggled to remember that as well, I saw the wide spiral staircase, tried to recall the smooth dark wood along the banister, the feel of running my hand along it.

  And that’s when I saw my father walking down the stairs, one slow step at a time, looking like a god descending from heaven.

  I remembered that manner of his, as if he was never in a hurry. I remembered that feeling of always waiting, of always feeling scared, not knowing what would happen next.

  But now he was standing on the bottom step, staring at me, no color in his face. And I’m sure I looked the same way. It was like one ghost staring at another. Oh! Perhaps he was seeing my mother in my face and hated me. I bowed my head.

  “Daughter,” he suddenly said, “you should invite our guests to sit down.”

  I turned to the side to see if he was speaking to someone else in the room. But Old Aunt nudged me, and I found myself pointing to a sitting room to my right, saying, “Please sit down, come in and sit. Don’t be polite, sit,” as if I had always welcomed my aunties to a house I did not live in.

  We were all sitting very quietly on sofas with feather cushions that sank down low and made me feel stuck. Old Aunt was nodding nervously toward my father: “How are you, Big Brother? Good health, I hope.” New Aunt repeated the same thing: “How are you? How are you?”

  My father smiled, slowly crossed his legs, then said, “Not bad, although not the best. You know how it is when your bones grow a little older.”

  “Ai, this is true!” Old Aunt burst in right away. “It’s the same way with me. I have stomach pains, all the time, right after dinner, and here in my bowels—”

  One of my father’s eyebrows shot up, and everyone fell silent again. The gong of a clock sounded in another room, and my aunts pretended to listen with great delight, then agreed that this was the most beautiful noise they had ever heard.

  I was quiet. Sitting there, I saw that my father looked like an older, thinner image of Uncle. His face was more stern, also more intelligent-looking. He wore glasses with round gold rims, a dark Western suit with a Chinese vest underneath. He was not very tall, although he had the air of a large man, the way he slowly turned his head halfway back toward a servant, then slowly waved the servant forward with his hand. But instead of telling the servant something, he turned to me.

  “Daughter, you decide. Should we have Chinese snacks or English biscuits with our tea?” My mind felt like two horses running off in opposite directions. Which one? Which answer was correct?

  “Something simple,” I finally whispered.

  And he smiled. “Of course, that’s what you always prefer.” He waved his hand once again to the servant, told him to bring English biscuits, Chinese pears, and Belgian chocolates.

  I thought about what he did. His manners were so elegant, very strange to me. Yet he seemed to know me. If I had truly spoken my desires, that’s what I would have said, all those things.

  Over tea, which did not last too long, Old Aunt told my father all about the Wen family—how they were the best match for his daughter, a good ally for his family business. I stared at my hands folded in my lap, glancing up every now and then to see my father’s reaction. And we all listened as Old Aunt took a little piece of truth and stretched it in all directions.

  The Wen family’s export business became an international shipping company. Wen Fu’s knowledge of overseas business became handshake friendships with the presidents of the most important companies in England and America. And the Wen family mother now had talents so great—well, hearing Old Aunt, you would think she could charm a winter tree into growing back its leaves overnight!

  My father was not a stupid man. He listened quietly, sipped his tea. And every time Old Aunt exaggerated too much, he stared at her without saying anything, no expression on his face, until she became flustered and moved her estimate of the Wen family down just slightly.

  “Oh, naturally, their business is not successful by your same standards, not nearly as high as your position. But they are very comfortable and very, very respected. That’s the most important thing for your daughter, I was thinking, a respected family.”

  And now Old Aunt had exhausted herself with good things to boast about the Wen family. Still, my father did not say anything.

  “A good boy, a respected family,” New Aunt said to fill in the quiet.

  My father was looking at me. I was confused, and tried not to show this. Perhaps he was against the marriage. Maybe he was still angry with my mother, angry with me.

  “I know this family,” he said at last. “I have already had some people look into their business, to find out about their background.”

  He waved his hand back, as if chasing away a mosquito. “But it is good to hear what my own family has to say as well.”

  This news startled Old Aunt and New Aunt. They looked like two thieves caught stealing beans. They hung their heads do
wn, guilty, waiting to hear what my father would say next, what he already knew.

  “Daughter, what do you think?” His voice was low, almost hoarse. “Is this what you want?”

  I bit my lips. I pinched my fingers. I plucked at my dress, trying to think how I should answer.

  My father waved his hand again. “This is what she wants,” he said to my aunties, then sighed. “How can we stop her?”

  My aunties both laughed a little, as if this were a joke. But I heard something different. That tone in his voice, he sounded sad. Before I could think about this anymore, my father started asking questions about business matters, so perhaps I was mistaken.

  “How big a gift is the Wen family offering?”

  Old Aunt handed over the envelope. My father quickly counted out four thousand yuan, then nodded. I was relieved. This was a large sum, a respectable amount, the same as two thousand dollars in U.S. money, maybe worth forty or fifty thousand today. A middle-class Chinese person would have to work more than ten years to earn that sum of money. But it did not mean the Wen family was really giving my father that money. He was supposed to hand back the money on my wedding day, give it to the Wen family, saying, “You are sharing a lifetime of your family’s wealth with my daughter. That is already enough.”

  And my father was then expected to give me a money dowry that was the same size as their gift, telling me, “This is some extra money so you are not too much of a burden on your new family.” And that money would be mine, put into a bank account under my name. I didn’t have to share it. No one could take it away from me. But it would be the only money I would have for my entire lifetime.

  “How big a dowry does the Wen family expect?” my father asked next. And here he was referring to things beyond the money dowry.

  Old Aunt had to be very careful how she answered. If she said the Wens did not want very much, it would appear that they were not a family worthy of joining. If she said they wanted a lot, it would sound as if I were not worthy of them. But Old Aunt had already had experience marrying off her two daughters, so she simply said, “The furnishings for her and her new husband’s room,” meaning the room we would have in the Wen family house. That kind of answer did not make the Wens sound greedy. That kind of answer was like a turn in a poker game. It was now up to my father to show how extra generous he could be.

  “Of course,” added Old Aunt, “the husband’s family will buy the bed.” And here she was referring to old custom, because all generations of sons always had to come from the husband’s bed.

  “More tea?” my father asked. And because he had asked, rather than ordered the servant to pour the tea right away, that was our sign the visit was over. My aunties and I jumped up quickly.

  “No, no, we must go,” Old Aunt said.

  “So soon?” my father said.

  “We are already late,” said New Aunt, which was not true. We had nowhere else to go at that hour of the afternoon; our boat would not leave until the evening. We started to walk out of the room.

  But then I heard my father call me. He did not say “daughter.” He called me by my name. “Weiwei-ah,” he said. “Say good-bye to your aunties. Then come to my study so we can talk about your dowry. ”

  What small hopes I carried to my father’s house that afternoon! And now what great wishes wanted to leap from my throat with a shout! He was treating me as if I was truly a daughter, all those years in between completely forgotten.

  Of course, he did not hug me and kiss me, not the way you Americans do when you have been reunited after five minutes’ separation. We did not even talk very long after my aunties left. But what little he did tell me has made me wonder, even to this day: Did he truly think he was sending me to a good marriage? Or was he finding an easy way to be rid of me forever, this reminder of his own unhappy marriage?

  And so I have remembered clearly his few words spoken to me that afternoon. I do not think I changed them in my mind to make the meaning of his words go the way I wanted.

  His face was solemn, his expression frank. He spoke of no apologies for what had passed as twelve years’ separation. “Now that you are getting married,” he said, “you will learn your true position in life.” And then he pointed to an old-style painting that stretched from one end of the wall to the other. It showed one hundred different people: men, women, and children. And they were doing one hundred different things: working, eating, sleeping, all brief moments in life captured forever.

  “When you were a small child,” my father said, “you would come into this room and look at this painting over and over again. Do you remember it?”

  I stared at the painting for a very long time, hoping to recognize it. And at last, I remembered a small figure in the corner. It was a lady looking over a balcony. I nodded.

  “When I asked you if you liked the painting, you told me it was a very bad painting. Do you remember?”

  I could not imagine myself saying such a thing to my father, even as a young child. “I am sorry, I do not remember this,” I said. “I am even more sorry that what you remember is a disobedient child.”

  “You said the painting was very confusing. You could not tell if the lady playing the lute was singing a happy or a sad song. You could not tell if the woman carrying a heavy load was beginning her journey or ending it. And this woman on the balcony, you said one moment she looked as though she was waiting with hope, the next moment watching with fear.”

  I covered my mouth and laughed. “What a strange child I was,” I said.

  My father continued talking as if he had not heard me. “I liked this in you, so unafraid to say what you thought.” And now he looked at me and his face looked empty of any thoughts or feelings.

  “So tell me, what do you think of this painting now?” he said.

  My mind ran fast, trying to think of the answer, one that would please him, that would show him I had not changed in my honesty.

  “This part I like very much,” I said, nervously pointing to a man pleading before a magistrate. “The proportions are good, the details are very fine. And this part of the painting I don’t like at all. You see, it’s too dark, heavy at the bottom, and the features are too flat—”

  My father had walked away. He was nodding, although I did not think he was agreeing with me.

  He turned around to face me. “From now on,” he said at last with a stern look, “you must consider what your husband’s opinions are. Yours do not matter so much anymore. Do you understand?”

  I nodded eagerly, grateful that my father had taught me this useful lesson in such a subtle way. And then he said I would stay in his house for the next week so I could shop for my dowry.

  “Do you know what you need?” he asked.

  I looked down, still shy. “Something simple.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Always something simple.” He smiled, and I was so happy I had said just the right thought.

  But then his smile was gone. “Just like your mother,” he said, “always wanting something simple.” And then his eyes grew small, as if he were still seeing her in some distant place. “Always wanting something else,” he said, then looked at me sharply. “Are you the same way?”

  His meaning—it was like that painting, changing at each moment. And I was like the lady on the balcony, waiting with hope, waiting with fear, my heart swelling and shrinking with every word. So that in the end, I did not know how to answer him. I said only what flew out of my mouth, honest and true. “The same,” I said.

  That afternoon, a servant showed me to the room I once shared with my mother, then left me so I could rest up before the evening meal. As soon as the door closed, I inspected and touched everything.

  The quilts were different. The paintings and curtains she had chosen were no longer there. Her clothes, her brush and comb, the lavender soap, all her smells—nowhere to be found. But the furniture was the same: the bed, the tall dresser, the stool and vanity table, the mirror that once held her face. I cried, so happy
to return at last. And then I cried a different way, just like a little child again, wondering when my mother would come back.

  I found out later: No one wanted that room that had once belonged to my mother. It was considered a bad-luck room. And so no one had used that room in all those years, even though the house was filled with many people. San Ma and Wu Ma still lived there. You remember them—my father’s other wives. Sz Ma had already died a few years back. And my father’s sons, now with wives and children of their own, they lived there as well. So did the servants and their children. All together, the house contained maybe twenty-five or thirty people.

  But even with that many people, the house seemed very quiet. When I went downstairs for the evening meal, people were talking in quiet voices. They greeted me politely enough, and of course, no one mentioned the reason for my absence for so many years. I think they didn’t know how to treat me.

  And then the food began to arrive on the table. I started to sit next to a half brother’s wife, but my father motioned that I should sit next to him. Everyone turned to watch me. My father stood up and announced, “My daughter Jiang Weili is to be married in one month.” And then we waited—and waited and waited—as the servant slowly poured a special drink into small jade cups the size of thimbles.

  Finally my father spoke again, a simple toast in my honor: “In your marriage, may you find all that you wish. Ganbei!” Bottoms up! He tipped his head back and emptied his cup in one quick swallow. We all followed. And soon I found everyone congratulating me, talking loudly in the manner of a happy family. My tongue burned from the liquor, my eyes burned with tears of joy.

  As it turned out, my father asked San Ma to help me shop for my dowry. She was the senior wife, the one who approved the spending of household money. And of course, she was also familiar with all the things a girl needs when she marries. She had already done this for Sz Ma’s three daughters, who married after Sz Ma died. That’s what she told me as the automobile took us to Yung An Gungsi, the first-class shopping store on Nanking Road.