“Oh, Meiling. I’ve been selfish…”
She gives me a sad smile. “You aren’t hearing me even now. This isn’t about your emotions. I’m a working woman. I’ve always had to get by on my own. I know the cost of food, firewood, cloth, housing—”
I hold up a hand to stop her list from growing any longer. “What’s wrong, and how can I help?”
With that, she buries her face in her hands and starts to weep. Slowly, she begins to tell me of her life. Her husband is struggling with his business. They do indeed reside in rooms above his shop. Her mother—with no elite families hiring her—has come to live with them.
“Kailoo is kind, and we like each other,” Meiling confesses, “but three of us living together in two rooms is not the same as dozens of people living in a courtyard home such as this. I long for a child, but it’s hard to make one when my mother is never more than two body lengths away.”
I don’t have the knowledge or experience to imagine what her life must be like. “All these years, I’ve thought you were the lucky one,” I say. “When I think of the things you’ve seen—”
“The things I’ve seen,” she echoes. “Yunxian, you would not believe what I’ve seen even if I told you. Orphaned children begging on corners… What giving birth to ten or more babies does to a woman who has not one servant… The ugliness of autopsies…”
The torment of these experiences scrapes at the beauty of her features, and I’m reminded for perhaps the ten thousandth time of the nature of yin and yang and how it’s woven into the fabric of every aspect of our lives—from the intimate details regarding two women to the way they affect the cosmos. When one person rises, the other sinks. When one person is happy, the other falls into despair. Meiling’s and my natures may ebb and flow, but our friendship makes us part of a single whole. I feel it’s my duty to help lift her out of her chasm as she helped carry me from the brink of death. I would not be able to call myself Meiling’s friend otherwise.
PART III
RICE-AND-SALT DAYS
The Third Through Fifth Years of the Hongzhi Emperor’s Reign
(1490–1492)
The Wife Is Earth
Rice-and-salt days may not be the longest period in a woman’s life, but they are the most important and most arduous. For a wife and mother, one day can feel like a year. I begin this day by writing the results of a case in my notebook.
A fifteen-year-old scullery maid suffered from scrofula and endured more than thirty sores and lumps, reddened and bruised, on her neck. Burdened by heavy work, especially in summer, the lumps multiplied, and she experienced both fever and chills. I detected Lung and Kidney deficiencies, exacerbated by taxation and Summer Heat. I burned mugwort moxibustion on the tips of her elbows and on seven other points. The lumps suppurated and have since vanished, with no recurrence.
I list all eight moxibustion points for future reference, but I don’t write the girl’s name or that she resides in the Garden of Fragrant Delights. I always keep this information private. I set down my brush and put away my notebook. Just before leaving my room, I tuck a small ball of tea wrapped in rice paper in my pocket. Meiling brought it to me from her husband’s tea shop the last time she visited. A few minutes later, I tap on my mother-in-law’s door and enter. Lady Kuo still sleeps, but her maid, Sparrow, has risen from her pallet, dressed, added fuel to the brazier, and set a pot of water to heat.
“Good morning, Lady Tan,” Sparrow says in a low voice.
“Good morning,” I reply. “Did Lady Kuo sleep well?”
“The same as usual,” Sparrow answers uncomfortably, glancing at an empty wine pot.
This accounts for the sour smell that hangs in the room—the same kind of rankness my husband brings home with him after a night of drinking with friends. That is, when he’s here in Wuxi.
“What kind of tea have you brought this morning?” Lady Kuo asks sleepily as she pulls herself to a sitting position. I watch as she reaches for a cup on her bedside table and spits into it. Over the past year she’s developed a cough. It’s not bone-steaming disease, which reveals itself slowly, with a patient coughing and losing weight and energy until he or she begins to hack up blood. Those cases, if untreated, end horribly, with the patient dying as blood gushes from the mouth. What ails Lady Kuo is something else entirely. As the day progresses, she’ll repeatedly clear her throat—keeck, keeck—and then spit her saliva into the cup she keeps nearby at all times. Doctor Wong has provided remedies, but nothing seems to help. I have my suspicions of what could be causing her such distress, but Lady Kuo would never let me treat her.
“Are you going to answer my question?” Lady Kuo asks.
I pull the ball from my pocket and carefully open the paper wrapper. Inside is a small, perfectly formed, dried type of citrus called a mandarin. Lady Kuo stares at it with interest. I motion to Sparrow, who brings a pot filled with hot water, an elegant porcelain teapot, and a single cup on a tray.
“Far from here in a small village in Guangdong province, farmers grow this mandarin, which is unique in all China,” I explain. “They make a little cut at the top as you would to remove the stem from a gourd or melon. Then, without damaging the peel, they scrape the fruit from inside, dry the peel until it hardens, pack the interior with tea, put the top back on, and then let the whole thing dry some more until it looks like this—flawless and unblemished.”
“As if it came right off the tree.”
I make a small sound of agreement, pleased she appreciates how exquisite it is. Lady Kuo watches as I crush the fruit in my palm to reveal the leaves inside. I drop everything into the porcelain pot, pour the hot water over the leaves and peel, let them steep for a few seconds, pour the fragrant brew into a cup, and offer it to my mother-in-law. Lady Kuo takes a sip and says, “I taste the citrus blossoms on the day the sun opened them.” Her pleasure lasts a moment, and then she regards me with distrust. “It’s not medicine, is it?”
“Of course not. I hoped you’d enjoy the taste.”
Lady Kuo takes a few more sips, then keeck, keeck. She reaches for her spittle cup and dismisses me with a peremptory nod. I bow and return to my room. I have two shelves behind my writing table where I keep a small selection of herbs that any wife would have in her home to treat her family. I gather together a few ingredients, step back outside, and walk along the corridor to my second responsibility of the day.
I’ve lived in the Garden of Fragrant Delights for fourteen years, during which the ancestors have continued to reward the family with prosperity and good health. As Lady Kuo frequently points out, “The ancestors provide for us, but the only way to keep them happy is by making offerings, and the only person who can make those offerings is the eldest son.” Master Yang currently performs the ancestral rights as the head of the family. When he dies, this duty will skip over Second Uncle and pass to my husband in keeping with the direct line of succession. It’s my obligation as Maoren’s wife to provide a son who’ll see to these responsibilities when he dies. Extra sons won’t hurt. But I need to give birth to that first important son, who’ll carry the burden of protecting the family and guaranteeing its future for generations to come.
I’ve reached twenty-nine years, a year older than my mother was when she died. I’ve fully grown into the grace that bound feet bring to a woman. I’m the mother of three girls—a terrible disappointment. I haven’t given birth to an heir, nor have I been pregnant again in the last six years. This has not been lost on my mother-in-law. How many times have I heard “If you were as clever as you think you are, then you would be full with child again”? Too many times to count, but it’s hard to make a baby when one of the people is occupied elsewhere. Not long after Yuelan was born, Maoren passed the first level of imperial exams and became a “county scholar.” Three years later, he succeeded at the provincial exams and became a juren—a “recommended man.” Although Maoren is studying to take the final exams to reach the jinshi level, I suspect he won’t pass. Grandfather made good on his promise, however, and found my husband a position on the Board of Punishments in Nanjing. It’s several days away, so Maoren rarely comes home. When he’s here, we try hard to make a son, but we have not had luck yet.
I enter the room my daughters share. The two oldest girls are already up and dressed. My youngest daughter, Ailan, is still in bed, and she calls weakly, “Mama.” Even from across the room I can see tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Sit up,” I say. “You know what we have to do today.”
“We clean and tighten every four days,” she whimpers.
Yuelan bites the inside of her cheek. Chunlan turns away, picks up a comb, and—with her back to us—runs it from her scalp down to the ends of her black hair.