Peach Blossom Pavillion

by Mingmei Yip

Genres: Asian American; Historical Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

In a sunny California apartment, a young woman and her fiancé arrive to record her great-grandmother's story. The story that unfolds of Precious Orchid's life in China, where she rises from a childhood of shame to become one of the most successful courtesans in the land, is unlike any they've heard before. . . When Precious Orchid's father is falsely accused of a crime and found guilty, he is executed, leaving his family a legacy of dishonor. Her mother's only option is to enter a Buddhist nunnery, so she gives her daughter over to the care of her sister in Shanghai. At first, life at Peach Blossom Pavilion feels like a dream. Surrounded by exotic flowers, murmuring fountains, colorful fishponds, and bamboo groves, Precious Orchid sees herself thriving. She is schooled in music, literature, painting, calligraphy, and to her innocent surprise, the art of pleasuring men. For the beautiful Pavilion hides its darker purpose as an elite house of prostitution. And even as she commands the devotion of China's most powerful men, Precious Orchid never gives up on her dream to escape the Pavilion, be reunited with her mother, avenge her father's death, and find true love. And as the richest, most celebrated Ming Ji or "prestigious courtesan" in all of China, she just might have her way even if it comes with a devastating price. . . Sweeping in scope and stunning in its evocation of China, Peach Blossom Pavilion is a remarkable novel with an unforgettable heroine at the heart of its powerful story. . . "Riveting. . .a rare peek into an exotic culture that is thrilling, captivating, and moving." --Shobhan Bantwal, author of The Dowry Bride "In the sure voice of Precious Orchid, Mingmei Yip recounts thirteen tumultuous years of Chinese history: vicious politics, pristine piety and heartrending scandal, framed in the classical arts. She writes with a painter's fastidious eye and the irresistible energy of grand storytelling. The pages just turn themselves." --Neal Chandler, Director, Creative Writing Program of Cleveland State University. "Peach Blossom Pavilion, story of the last geisha in China, is told with amazing insight as if the author had lived in the tumultuous China of a century ago. Through her beautiful, lucid prose, Mingmei brings modern Western readers into the mysterious world of the cultivated courtesan." --Hannelore Hahn, Founder and Executive Director, International Women's Writing Guild. "Peach Blossom Pavilion is a vivid account of the forgotten past." --Chun Yu, author of Little Green: Growing Up During the Chinese Cultural Revolution

Release date: June 12, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 433

Sample

To be a prostitute was my fate.

After all, no murderer’s daughter would be accepted into a decent household to be a wife whose children would be smeared with crime even before they were born. The only other choice was my mother’s—to take refuge as a nun, for the only other society which would accept a criminal’s relatives lay within the empty gate.

I had just turned thirteen when I exchanged the quiet life of a family for the tumult of a prostitution house. But not like the others, whose parents had been too poor to feed them, or who had been kidnapped and sold by bandits.

It all happened because my father was convicted of a crime—one he’d never committed.

“That was the mistake your father should never have made,” my mother told me over and over, “trying to be righteous, and,” she added bitterly, “meddling in rich men’s business.”

True. For that “business” cost him his own life, and fatefully changed the life of his wife and daughter.

Baba had been a Peking opera performer and a musician. Trained as a martial arts actor, he played acrobats and warriors. During one performance, while fighting with four pennants strapped to his thirty-pound suit of armor, he jumped down from four stacked chairs in his high-soled boots and broke his leg. Unable to perform on stage anymore, he played the two-stringed fiddle in the troupe’s orchestra. After several years, he became even more famous for his fiddle playing, and an amateur Peking opera group led by the wife of a Shanghai warlord hired him as its accompanist. Every month the wife would hold a big party in the house’s lavish garden. It was an incident in that garden that completely changed our family’s destiny.

One moonlit evening amid the cheerful tunes of the fiddle and the falsetto voices of the silk-clad and heavily jeweled tai tai—society ladies—the drunken warlord raped his own teenage daughter.

The girl grabbed her father’s gun and fled to the garden where the guests were gathered. The warlord ran behind her, puffing and pants falling. Suddenly his daughter stopped and turned to him. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she slowly pointed the gun to her head. “Beast! If you dare come an inch closer, I’ll shoot myself!”

Baba threw down his precious fiddle and ran to the source of the tumult. He pushed away the gaping guests, leaped forward, and tried to seize the gun. But it went off. The hapless girl fell dead to the ground in a pool of blood surrounded by the stunned guests and servants.

The warlord turned to grab Baba’s throat till his tongue protruded. Eyes blurred and face as red as his daughter’s splattered blood, he spat on Baba. “Animal! You raped my daughter and killed her!”

Although all the members in the household knew it was a false accusation, nobody was willing to right the wrong. The servants were scared and powerless. The rich guests couldn’t have cared less.

One general meditatively stroked his beard, sneering, “Big deal, it’s just a fiddle player.” And that ended the whole event.

Indeed, it was a big deal for us. For Baba was executed. Mother took refuge as a Buddhist nun in a temple in Peking. I was taken away to a prostitution house.

This all happened in 1918.

Thereafter, during the tender years of my youth, while my mother was strenuously cultivating desirelessness in the Pure Lotus Nunnery in Peking, I was busy stirring up desire within the Peach Blossom Pavilion.

Mother’s saying kept knocking around in my head until one day I swore, kneeling before Guan Yin—the Goddess of Mercy—that I would never be merciful in this life. But not meddle in rich men’s business? It was precisely the rich and powerful at whom I aimed my arts of pleasing. Like Guan Yin with a thousand arms holding a thousand amulets to charm, I was determined to cultivate myself to be a woman with a thousand scheming hearts to lure a thousand men into my arms.

But, of course, this kind of cultivation started later, when I had become aware of the realm of the wind and moon. When I’d first entered the prostitution house, I was but a little girl with a heart split into two: one half light with innocence, the other heavy with sorrow.

In the prostitution house, I was given the name Precious Orchid. It was only my professional name; my real name was Xiang Xiang, given for two reasons. I was born with a natural xiang—body fragrance (a mingling of fresh milk, honey, and jasmine), something which rarely happens except in legends where the protagonist lives on nothing but flowers and herbs. Second, I was named after the Xiang River of Hunan Province. My parents, who had given me this name, had cherished the hope that my life would be as nurturing as the waterway of my ancestors, while never expecting that it was my overflowing tears which would nurture the river as it flows its never-ending course. They had also hoped that my life would sing with happiness like the cheerful river, never imagining that what flowed in my voice was nothing but the bittersweet melodies of Karma.

Despite our abject poverty after Baba’s death, it was never my mother’s intent to sell me into Peach Blossom Pavilion. This bit of chicanery was the work of one of her distant relatives, a woman by the name of Fang Rong—Beautiful Countenance. Mother had met her only once, during a Chinese New Year’s gathering at a distant uncle’s house. Not long after Baba had been executed, Fang Rong appeared one day out of nowhere and told my mother that she could take good care of me. When I first laid eyes on her, I was surprised that she didn’t look at all like what her name implied. Instead, she had the body of a stuffed rice bag, the face of a basin, and the eyes of a rat, above which a big mole moved menacingly.

Fang Rong claimed that she worked as a housekeeper for a rich family. The master, a merchant of foreign trade, was looking for a young girl with a quick mind and swift hands to help in the household. The matter was decided without hesitation. Mother, completely forgetting her vow never to be involved in rich men’s business, was relieved that I’d have a roof over my head. So, with her departure for Peking looming, she agreed to let Fang Rong take me away.

Both Mother and Fang Rong looked happy chatting under the sparkling sun. Toward the end of their conversation, after Fang Rong had given Mother the address of the “rich businessman,” she shoved me into a waiting rickshaw. “Quick! Don’t make the master wait!”

When the vehicle was about to take off, Mother put her face close to me and whispered, “From now on, listen to Aunty Fang and your new master and behave. Will you promise me that?”

I nodded, noticing the tears welling in her eyes. She gently laid the cloth sack containing my meager possessions (a small amount of cash and a few rice balls sprinkled with bits of salted fish) on my lap, then put her hand on my head. “Xiang Xiang, I’ll be leaving in a month. If I can, I’ll visit you. But if I don’t, I’ll write as soon as I’ve arrived in Peking.” She paused, a faint smile breaking on her withered face. “You’re lucky . . .”

I touched her hand. “Ma . . .”

Just as I was struggling to say something, Fang Rong’s voice jolted us apart. “All right, let’s go, better not be late.” With that, the rickshaw puller lifted the poles and we started to move.

I turned back and waved to Mother until she became a small dot and finally vanished like the last morning dew.

Fang Rong rode beside me in silence. Houses floated by as the rickshaw puller grunted along. After twists and turns through endless avenues and back alleys, the rickshaw entered a tree-lined boulevard.

Fang Rong turned to me and smiled. “Xiang Xiang, we’ll soon be there.”

Though the air was nippy, the coolie was sweating profusely. We bumped along a crowded street past a tailor, an embroidery shop, a hair salon, and a shoe store before the coolie finally grunted to a stop.

Fang Rong paid and we got out in front of the most beautiful mansion I’d ever seen. With walls painted a pale pink, the building rose tall and imposing, with a tightly closed red iron gate fiercely guarded by two stone lions. At the entrance, a solitary red lantern swayed gently in the breeze. An ornate wooden sign above the lintel glinted in the afternoon sun. I shaded my eyes and saw a shiny signboard, black with three large gold characters: PEACH BLOSSOM PAVILION. On either side, vertical boards flanking the gate read:


“Aunty Fang,” I pointed to the sign, “what is this Peach—”

“Come on,” Fang Rong cast me an annoyed look, “don’t let your father wait,” and pulled me along.

My father? Didn’t she know that he was already dead? Just as I was wondering what this was all about, the gate creaked open, revealing a man of about forty; underneath shiny hair parted in the middle shone a smooth, handsome face. An embroidered silk jacket was draped elegantly over a lean, sinewy body.

He scrutinized me for long moments, then his face broke into a pleasant grin. “Ah, so the rumor is true. What a lovely girl!” His slender fingers with their long, immaculate nails reached to pat my head. I felt an instant liking for this man my father’s age. I also wondered, how could the ugly-to-death Fang Rong catch such a nice-looking man?

“Wu Qiang,” Fang Rong drew away his hand, “haven’t you ever seen a pretty girl in your life?” Then she turned to me. “This is my husband Wu Qiang and your father.”

“But Aunty—”

Now Fang Rong put on an ear-reaching grin. “Xiang Xiang, your father is dead, so from now on Wu Qiang is your father. Call him De.”

Despite my liking for this man, in my heart no one could take the place of my father. “But he’s not my de!”

Fang Rong shot me a smile with the skin, but not the flesh. “I’ve told you that now he is, and I’m your mother, so call me Mama.”

Before I could protest again, she’d already half-pushed me along through a narrow entranceway. Then I forgot to complain because as we passed into the courtyard, my eyes beheld another world. Enclosed within the red fence was a garden where lush flowerbeds gave off a pleasing aroma. On the walls were painted lovely maidens cavorting among exotic flowers. A fountain murmured, spurting in willowy arcs. In a pond, golden carps swished their tails and gurgled trails of bubbles. A stone bridge led across the pond to a pavilion with gracefully upturned eaves. Patches of soothing shade were cast by artfully placed bamboo groves.

While hurrying after Fang Rong and Wu Qiang, I spotted a small face peeking out at me from behind the bamboo grove. What struck me was not her face but the sad, watery eyes which gazed into mine, as if desperate to tell a tale.

When I was on the verge of asking about her, Fang Rong cast me a tentative glance. “Xiang Xiang, aren’t you happy that this is now your new home? Isn’t it much better than your old one?”

I nodded emphatically, while feeling stung by those sad eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll like it even better when you taste the wonderful food cooked by our chef,” Wu Qiang chimed in enthusiastically.

Soon we arrived at a small room decorated with polished furniture and embroidered pink curtains. Against the back wall stood an altar with a statue of a white-browed, red-eyed general mounted on a horse and wielding a sword. Arrayed in front of him were offerings of rice, meat, and wine.

In the center of the room was a table set with chopsticks, bowls, and dishes of snacks. Fang Rong told me to sit between her and Wu Qiang. With no other etiquette, she announced that dinner would begin. A middle-aged woman brought out plates of food, then laid them down one by one on the table. After filling the bowls with rice and soup, she left without a word.

During the whole meal, Fang Rong kept piling food into my bowl. “Eat more, soon you’ll be a very healthy and charming young lady.”

I’d never before tasted food so delicious. I gulped down chunks of fish, shrimp, pork, chicken, and beef, washing them down with cup after cup of fragrant tea.

When dinner was finished, I asked, “Aunty Fang—”

“Didn’t you forget that I’m now your mama?”

Her stare was so fierce that I finally muttered a weak, “Mama.” I swallowed hard. “After dinner, are we going to see the master and the mistress of the mansion?”

Barely had I finished my question when she burst into laughter. Then she took a sip of her tea and replied meaningfully. “Ha, silly girl! Don’t you know that we are your new master and mistress?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what I mean—I am the mistress and my husband is the master of this Peach Blossom Pavilion.”

“What is Peach Blossom Pavilion?”

“A book chamber.”

I looked around but didn’t see any books, not even bookshelves.

Fang Rong cast me a mysterious look. “A cloud and rain pavilion.”

Now Wu Qiang added soothingly, “This is . . . ah . . . a turquoise pavilion.”

“What—”

Fang Rong spat, “A whorehouse!”

Wu Qiang looked on with a mysterious smile while his wife burst out in a loud laugh. Then she chided me affectionately. “Why do people always have to have the entrails drawn?”

She was referring to the Chinese saying that when one paints a portrait, he even includes the intestines—an act redundant and stupid.

Shocked, it took several beats before I could utter, “But didn’t you tell us that the master is a merchant of foreign trade?”

Fang Rong laughed, her huge breasts and bulging belly shivering. “Ha! Ha! It’s true. From time to time we do entertain British, French, and American soldiers here. Don’t you know you’ve just arrived at the night district of Si Malu? This is the most high-class shangren lane, where all the book chambers are found!”

I felt a queasiness simmering in my stomach. “You mean . . . I was sold into—” Fang Rong’s harsh voice pierced my ears. “No, you were not sold, silly girl! You were given to us as a gift—”

Using his long-nailed pinky to pick some meat from between his teeth while stealing a glance at me, Wu Qiang added, “We didn’t even have to pay your mother.”

“That’s why we never forget to make offerings to the Buddha, Guan Yin the Goddess of Mercy, and,” her sausage finger pointing to the sword-wielding, horse-riding general, “the righteous, money-bringing White-Browed God.” Fang Rong winked, then pinched my cheek. “So, little pretty, see how they look after us!”

Now, as if he were my real father, Wu Qiang looked down at me tenderly, his voice unctuous. “Xiang Xiang, don’t worry. From now on, you’ll have plenty of good food to eat and pretty clothes to wear. You’ll see we’ll take care of you like you’re our own daughter.”

But they were not my mother and father. That night, alone, helpless, and abandoned, I cried a long time before I fell asleep in the small, bare room to which I’d been led.

My only hope was that my mother would write to me and soon come to visit.

In the following days, it surprised me that my anger at being tricked into the prostitution house had gradually waned. I had to admit, with embarrassment, that life here didn’t seem to be so bad after all. Fang Rong kept her promise to my mother—I was well clothed and fed. Moreover, I felt relieved to be spared, not only from accompanying clients but also from the menial chores like washing clothes, scrubbing floors, cleaning spittoons, emptying chamber pots. Those jobs were given to maids—girls too plain to ever serve as “sisters.”

In comparison to their work, mine was easy: serving the sisters and their customers while they played mahjong; refilling the guests’ water pipes and serving them tea and tobacco; helping the cook in the kitchen; carrying messages for the sisters; running errands for Fang Rong. Needless to say, I didn’t like serving Fang Rong, but I actually enjoyed the other tasks. Especially the mahjong playing—when the game was finished, the customers always tipped me generously by secretly pushing money into my hand.

Moreover, when the game finished and dinner was served in the banquet room, a puppy would always materialize to gobble bits of food thrown down by the guests and sisters. He was so cute that whenever I saw him, I’d pick him up, squeeze him in my arms, and bury my face into his fluffy yellow fur. Strangely, he was never given a name, but was just called “Puppy.” One time when I’d asked a sister why didn’t the puppy have a name, she laughed, “Because we don’t want to bother. Why don’t you give him one?” And I did. So he became Guigui—good baby. Guigui began to recognize me and follow me almost everywhere. His favorite place was beside me in the kitchen while I helped the chef, Ah Ping.

Ah Ping, a fortyish, mute, and half-witted woman, always secretly fed me and Guigui with goodies. For a chef, she was unusually thin. I always stared at her hollow cheeks and wondered why she never seemed to have any appetite. Or why she only spoke with jumbled sounds which no one could understand.

I carried out my chores mostly during my spare time. My main duty in the pavilion was to learn the arts—singing parts from Peking and Kun operas; playing the pipa—a four-stringed lute resembling a pear; painting; and practicing calligraphy.

The painting and calligraphy teacher was Mr. Wu, an old man in his forties. I felt very fond of him not only because he painted well, but, also because he was a very kind teacher—never scolding but gently redirecting my brush to show me how to form the strokes more elegantly. The opera teacher, Mr. Ma, was younger than Mr. Wu, but also pretty old—thirty-eight. I didn’t like him, for he looked at me strangely and would accidentally brush his hand against my face, my belly, sometimes even my breast (when he demonstrated how to lead my breath from my chest down to my dantian—cinnabar field).

A young woman named Pearl was assigned to teach me to play the pipa. Beautiful with shiny black hair and sparkling white teeth, Pearl was the most popular sister in the pavilion. Although I was extremely fond of her, somehow she also made me feel uneasy. I found it hard to tell what kind of a person she really was—sometimes sweet and lively like a rabbit, at other times arrogant and difficult like a cat. Though usually bright and bubbly, at moments she would become sad, as if burdened with forbidden secrets.

Besides Pearl’s unpredictable temper, I had another source of unease in the turquoise pavilion—the pair of sad eyes peeking out from the bamboo grove and staring at me whenever I passed the courtyard.

However, I felt happy and content with my art lessons and fine food; Fang Rong and her husband seemed almost parental to me, so I had little inclination to complain.

Life in this turquoise pavilion was really not so horrible as it was described by people outside.

Yet one thing made me sad. I’d been here nearly four weeks now, but Mother had never written to me nor come to visit as she’d promised. Counting on my fingers, I suddenly realized that she would be leaving for Peking tomorrow. So I went to Fang Rong and asked for her permission to let me leave the pavilion to see my mother off.

Although she smiled, the big mole between her brows looked as if it were about to leap toward me in full force. “Ah, you foolish girl. Don’t you know the rule in Peach Blossom? You can only be allowed to go outside the main gate on the following occasions: when you get an invitation from some very important guests, that’s only after you’ve become very popular and much sought after; when I take you out for business like fixing your hair or having clothes sewn for you; when the pavilion organizes an outing to entertain important parties.”

“What do you mean?” I stared at her mole to avoid her eyes.

“Don’t ask too many questions; it never does a little girl any good.” Her voice grew very sharp and harsh. “Anyway, you’re not going out, not tonight, not anytime, not until I tell you to, you understand? Now go and help Ah Ping in the kitchen. Tonight we’ll have a police chief, a banker, a cotton merchant, and many other important people to entertain.”

In the corridor on my way to the kitchen, I heard an assortment of noises—singing, chatting, pipa plucking, mahjong playing, Fang Rong’s yelling—drift from the different chambers. The sisters were putting on makeup, dressing, practicing their singing, or tuning their instruments one last time before the guests arrived. Today was a Saturday and business seemed unusually good. I peered down the street from a latticed window and saw shiny black cars pull up at the entrance, disgorging important-looking men—some clad in elegantly tailored silk gowns, others in perfectly pressed Western suits.

As I was watching the ebb and flow of cars, I felt a pool of sadness. Did my mother have any inkling that I was now living in a prostitution house and not a rich man’s residence? Why didn’t she come to see me?

I blinked back tears and hurried to the kitchen. Seeing me, Ah Ping’s pale face brightened. She gave me an affectionately chiding look, then pretended to hold a plate in one hand, while her other hand made a pouring motion. After that, she shrugged as if to warn, Ah, Xiang Xiang, if you’re late again next time, all the choice morsels will be gone!

She went to close the door, then returned to ladle bits of abalone, shark fin, and fish from the various cauldrons. She set the delicacies on a plate and pushed it across the table toward me. I was not hungry, but in order to please her, I picked up a piece of abalone and popped it into my mouth. As I was savoring the rubbery taste, I heard the grating of paws on wood.

“Aunty Ah Ping,” I threw down my chopsticks, “it’s Guigui!”

I dashed to open the door and let the puppy in. He yapped, then furiously licked my feet and wagged his tail. I scooped him up and began to feed him with the food from my plate. He lapped and gobbled happily.

Some strange sound emitted from Ah Ping’s throat. She was protesting that I shouldn’t feed the puppy with the delicacies reserved for important guests. I stuck out my tongue. She smiled back, then signaled me to continue eating.

But the only thing I wanted now was to see my mother. Tears swelled in my eyes as I buried my face into Guigui’s.

Ah Ping gestured with her hands. Something wrong?

“Aunty Ah Ping, I have . . . a stomachache, so can I—”

She waved toward the door. Go.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“Then thank you very much.” I put Guigui down on the floor. He protested by pulling the hem of my pant leg with his teeth. “But Aunty Ah Ping—”

Again, she waved frantically, then leaned her cheek on her hands. Go, go take a nap.

I hurried down to the courtyard, and after making sure that no one was hiding within the bamboo groves, treaded cautiously along the hidden path until I reached the main gate. Heart pounding, I hid behind the bamboo foliage for the right moment to escape. I waited until the denizens of the establishment—Fang Rong, Wu Qiang, the sisters, the maids, the amahs, the male servants, the guards—appeared for the ritual of greeting the arriving guests. While they were kowtowing and pouring flattery to the important visitors, I slipped out.

Once clear of the gate, I ran all the way to the main street and hailed a rickshaw.

“Hurry, hurry!” I kept shouting to the coolie’s scrawny back.

He turned and scrutinized me, his dull eyes menacing under the street light. “Little miss, this is a long way, so I have to save my energy. You don’t want me to fall down in the middle of the road; do you?”

So I kept my mouth shut and listened to his tortured grunts until he finally entered a long, dark passage and pulled to a stop in front of a dilapidated house. I thrust a few coins into his calloused hand, then ran toward the low building. Dim light seeped out from underneath our cracked door. I knocked on the thin wooden plank, my heart pounding and my mouth sucking in big gulps of air.

The door creaked open and light flooded from behind Mother’s back. Eyes widened, she dropped open her mouth. “Xiang Xiang, what a surprise! I’ve been worried to death about you!”

Choked with emotions, I could only utter a loud “Ma!” then thrust myself into her arms.

Mother led me inside and took me to sit down on the floor. The room was practically empty except for two suitcases and a few odds and ends.

She was dressed in a threadbare black smock and pants. Her hungry eyes scrutinized me for long moments. “Xiang Xiang, you look so different!” she exclaimed, stroking my face. “Now your body is much stronger and your face rounder. I’m so glad that you’re well fed.” She touched my floral cotton top and pants. “Look at you in this pretty outfit!” Before I could respond, she plunged on excitedly, “Xiang Xiang, I’m so glad that we finally have a piece of good luck!”

“But Ma—”

“Xiang Xiang, try not to complain too much; learn to be grateful.”

So how could I have the heart to tell her the truth—that I’d been tricked into a prostitution house? Besides, I was indeed well clothed and fed and not too badly treated. Although Peach Blossom Pavilion was a prostitution house, it was indeed also a mansion for rich men and I did work there as a maid. So why distress Mother with the rest of the truth? Therefore, when she went on to ask me this and that about my new life, I simply told her not to worry.

When I asked Mother why hadn’t she come to see me, she sighed, “Hai, Xiang Xiang, I’ve been very busy going from house to house to borrow money to pay off our debts before I leave this dusty world.” She paused to put one strand of my hair in place. “I did try to go to your place, but the address Aunty Fang gave me was wrong. I’ve been asking around anyone who might know her, but,” Mother stopped in midsentence to look at me tenderly, “anyway, you’re here now.”

I scribbled my address and gave it to her. “Ma, this is the right address, so you can write me after you’ve arrived in Peking.”

She carefully folded the paper as if it were a hundred silver-dollar bill and put it into her purse.

My heart slowly shattered inside.

Fall was fading into winter. The weather had already turned chilly and most of the leaves on the white parasol trees had fallen, and were strewn along the Huangpu River bank.

After a rickshaw ride and an interminable walk, my mother and I dragged our numbed bodies toward the North Train Station, dreading the moment of departure. Only one thought occupied our minds: We never knew when we would see each other again.

Staring at the parasol leaves scattered in intriguing patterns along the asphalt ground, Mother said, her voice smeared with melancholy. “Xiang Xiang, we Chinese say ‘falling leaves returning to their roots.’ You understand what this means?”

I looked up and caught her eyes beaming with tears. “Yes, Ma, it means that no matter what happens, we should always find our way home.”

A wry smile broke out on her bloodless face. “Will you remember this?”

I nodded, too choked with sadness to say anything. Also because I was thinking: But Ma, where’s our home? I don’t think we have one to go back to anymore! The turquoise pavilion, although it also had a “mama,” was definitely not my home, nor was the nunnery my mother’s. But I swallowed my words as well as my tears.

We arrived at the station and stepped inside the crowded lobby. Mother hurried to join the queue to buy tickets. I watched rich tai tai chatting languidly while waiting for their servants to buy them first-class passage.

After a while, Mother rushed back to me, waving the ticket in her hand. We hurried to the train. In the past, I had always felt excited by trains. I’d liked listening to their “Wu! Wu!” sound and watching the white smoke puffing out from their noses like steamed snow, while imagining the exotic places they would take me to. But now I dreaded this black monster. Soon it would grab my mother and take her away from me to a walled temple filled with bald-headed women reciting unintelligible sutras as if they were talking to ghosts!

“Xiang Xiang,” Mother said, while tenderly putting a Guan Yin pendant around my neck, “now hurry back to Aunty Fang and behave. Always obey her as if she were your real mother and never cause any trouble; you understand?”

I felt tears stinging my eyes. “But Ma, that fat, ugly pig is not my mother!”

Thwack! Mother slapped my face.

I started to cry. “Ma, why don’t you take me with you?”

“You think I’ve never thought of that?” She sighed, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe my tears. Her voice came out soft and low. “Sorry that I hit you, Xiang Xiang. But do you have any idea what kind of a life it is to be a nun? It’s fine with me since my prime has passed and now I’m but a worthless old woman. But you’re young and beautiful and have a bright future waiting before you, so I won’t let you squander it in a nunnery. Besides,” she sighed again, “one of the novice nuns told me that the Mother Abbess said . . .” She stopped in midsentence.

“Said what?”

“That you’re too beautiful to be a nun, and she fears your beauty will bring bad luck to her temple.”

Usually my heart would leap to heaven when people said that I was pretty, but now it sank to the bottom of the sea. “How do they know that I’m pretty?”

“I told them, because I’m so proud of you.” Mother patted my head. “Xiang