“Finally!” she exclaims. “The bride weeps as she should.”
Miss Zhao comes next. She’s followed by Lady Huang and her daughters, the three Jades, and a few of the higher-level servants, including Poppy and Inky. As the room fills with the gay chatter of the women who love me, Meiling edges toward the wall. Her presence is still frowned upon by some, but my grandmother is allowing her to remain with the family until Grandfather hands me off.
Grandmother claps to get everyone’s attention. “It’s time to dress the bride!”
I’m helped into a silk skirt and tunic the color of cinnabar. The skirt is embroidered with good luck and fertility symbols. The tunic is embroidered with a dragon and phoenix in gold and silver threads. My lips are painted the color of red lotus petals and my cheeks dabbed with white cream. Grandmother places the phoenix crown on my head. Charms in gold filigree, jade, and other precious and semiprecious stones dangle, their tinkling bringing birdsong to mind. From a distance, we hear clanging cymbals, beating drums, and squealing horns.
“The Book of Odes tells us that a young woman at marriage leaves her parents and siblings far behind,” Grandmother says. “It does not mention grandparents and others who love her.” Her voice catches. Then, “The groom has come to fetch the bride. It is time for your veil.”
I’m encircled by the women in my family. A chorus of goodbyes enters my ears. I seek individual faces, trying to memorize each unique pair of eyes, sharpness of cheekbones, or delicacy of chin. Together Grandmother and Meiling lift a red veil embroidered with peonies and set it over my crown. The cloth is opaque, so now I can see only by looking down the front of my bridal tunic and skirt to my shoes.
“On this day alone, you dress as an empress,” Grandmother says, “while your husband will wear the costume of the ninth rank. Live up to the emblems and you should both be happy.”
With that, Grandmother takes one arm and Meiling the other to guide me through the courtyards. The whole way Grandmother whispers words of advice and love.
“We’re at the last threshold,” she announces. “Lift your foot here.”
Outside the compound, I sense movement around me. I imagine what everything looks like: Decorated palanquins lined up for my relatives to ride in. The rest of my dowry—from the smallest sewing needles to large pieces of furniture—is wrapped in red silk or packed in red chests brightened with gilt and loaded onto carts and litters to be paraded to my husband’s home so that the world can see the wealth I bring with me.
“Greetings, Master Tan” comes a male voice. “We have come from the Yang family to present the Letter of Wedding Ceremony.”
“I will accept your letter,” I hear Grandfather say.
A few minutes pass as Grandfather silently reads it. In my mind, I imagine him nodding as he makes sure all is in order, including acknowledgment of my father’s gift to the Yang family of thirty mou of land, which was earlier conveyed by deed.
Meiling tightens the crook of her elbow around mine and whispers, “This is it. Goodbye, dear friend.”
“Meiling—”
“Neither of us knows what the future holds, but promise to write—”
“And promise to visit me.”
Meiling’s arm slips from mine, and Grandfather’s firm grip replaces her gentle one. A proper bride is expected to shed tears to show her reluctance to leave her family. This is not hard for me nor is it something I do out of duty. I sob as my grandparents guide me through the crowd. Looking down, I glimpse different pairs of feet. I recognize Miss Zhao’s blue satin shoes embroidered with snowflakes and my brother’s leather boots. I see the slippers belonging to the different Jades. I spot Poppy’s big feet; she’ll be walking alongside my palanquin as she did when we left Laizhou. Later she’ll tell me what she saw: how many people lined the road to watch our procession, how grand were the houses we passed, and if there were clouds wisping across the sky. I don’t see Meiling’s apricot shoes.
I’m helped into the palanquin. My body trembles. No matter how much I’ve prepared for this day, leaving everyone and all I know is sad. My emotions are so jumbled that I barely notice the discomfort of the ride. The discord of the cymbals and other instruments accompanies every step and jostle. The trip takes about forty-five minutes, but the bearers could be carrying me in a circuitous route so that I’ll be unable to find my way home on my own.
The drumming and cymbal crashing become even more frenetic. The pop of firecrackers and loud cheering announce that I’ve reached my destination. Voices shout orders and instructions, which tells me that already men are unloading my dowry. I wait in the palanquin, nervous as a fly up a water buffalo’s nose. This moment is called “the great coming home,” for it is said Heaven has preordained this union, but how can I feel anything but anxious—and scared—to see the place, family, and husband that have been set for me by destiny?
The door to the palanquin opens and a hand reaches in. Green cloth has been laid for me to walk on, so I can avoid contact with the filth and dangers of the earth. My escorts, by tradition, are widows. The hands that hold mine are spotted with age. I try to imagine the faces that go with the quavering voices that tell me to raise my foot over a threshold, be ready to take two steps up, or beware the slight incline of a garden bridge. Their voices are nearly drowned out by the clanging of instruments and the raucous greetings from others who live here. One more threshold and I’m inside a room. I’m guided forward until my red slippers are positioned next to a pair of man-sized shoes embroidered by me. They belong to my husband-to-be. I sway, and my sleeve brushes against his sleeve. Instinctively, we both pull away. Still, I’m aware of his presence—the warmth of his body next to mine, his breath nearly as ragged as my own.
Then things happen quickly. A voice asks us to bow three times: “The first is in worship to Heaven, Earth, and the revered ancestors of the Yang family. The second is in respect to Master Yang and his wife, Lady Kuo. Now bow to each other to show you will always be loyal and courteous—husband to wife and wife to husband.”
With that, I am a married woman. I no longer belong to my natal family; my relatives and ancestors are now entirely of the Yang lineage. Hands take my arms once again, and I’m escorted back outside and through more courtyards, twisting and turning. Perhaps this puzzle of a journey has also been designed to make me feel lost. Finally, I step over a threshold and into a new room. Children laugh and giggle, squeak and squeal. I don’t have to see them to know they’re jumping on my marriage bed—my mother’s bed—to encourage the mattress, linens, and woodwork to bring me the greatest fertility.
“Come away now,” a woman’s voice—stern and authoritative—commands. This must be my mother-in-law, because the children obey without a single complaint.
I’m guided to the bed. My husband sits next to me. His hands rest on his thighs. They show no signs of work other than holding books or a calligraphy brush. The traditional banter begins as strange fingers tuck red dates in the pleats of my clothes.
“Soon you will give birth to many children,” someone says, because the words date and son sound the same.
“May your life together be sweet,” another voice calls from across the room, because dates are sweet.
“May you have five sons and two daughters.”
“May you have a long life and many sons.”
“May your stamina never dissipate.”
“May your candle never go out.”
These last quips for my husband are met with rowdy guffaws, but that’s as far as that sort of teasing goes.
Lotus seeds shower down on us. The written characters for lotus seed and children share a radical, while the sound is a homophone for another word meaning in succession. So again, wishing us many children but without intimate teasing about Blood and Essence joining. I’m handed a goblet of wine. A red string is tied around the stem, and it leads to the stem of the goblet held by my husband. Voices cry out. “Drink! Drink! Drink!” I take a single sip, but then a hand pushes on the base of the goblet, tilting it up until I have no choice but to gulp down the rest of the rice wine. It burns as it travels to my stomach. Even as the liquid begins to transform my mind and emotions, a thumb and forefinger lift an edge of my veil. A pair of chopsticks bearing a half-cooked dumpling moves toward my mouth. I don’t want it, but what can I do? The word for raw sounds similar to bear children. The texture is mushy, but I can tell the meat is fresh.
Just as the banter starts to turn coarse, the woman I presume to be my mother-in-law speaks again. “It is time to leave these two to commence their married life. The rest of us will go to the banquet.”