THE TWO-STOREY TEAHOUSE was situated in a cobbled narrow street leading to the market square. It was a place popular with merchants and the gentry. A narrow wooden stairway led to the upper level. Kang knew that his brother- in-law would be upstairs having dim sum. His mouth watered at the thought of the little steamed dumplings in bamboo caskets. He could imagine their succulence and aroma. He had never eaten in the teahouse. How could he afford it? Dumplings such as those served in the teahouse were not for people like him. He had breakfasted that morning on a boiled sweet potato and drank tea made from the acrid black remains of discarded tea shoots. To drink the green tea favoured by his brother-in-law would cost the same as several bowls of rice. He gulped again; his stomach rumbled with hunger.
He hesitated at the bottom of the stairway. Someone was strumming a harp in the room above. The music rippled down the stairs and he felt encompassed by it. It was beautiful in its simplicity. He knew the song. It told of the folklore in this part of the world, tales that his grandmother related, tales about the wistful aspirations and loves of beautiful court ladies. He went up the stairs and stood for a moment to locate his brother-inlaw. He found him at a table overlooking the courtyard below. His brother-in-law did not notice his arrival. He was observing a small group of gentlemen with birdcages in their hands, engaged in a poetry session.
He hurried to the table. Huang looked up. A flash of annoyance appeared on his face. “You again. Can’t it wait?” he asked with his chopsticks held aloft, poised to place a dumpling in his mouth. He deposited the morsel deftly and waved Kang to the seat before him.
“Brother Huang, we need your advice urgently. I would not take up your time if I could help it.”
“All right, all right. Sit down. Tell me.” A loud sigh of exasperation accompanied his invitation. Huang knew that his wife despised his poor relatives. Seeing Kang in the eatery would be better than having him in the house. He was fond of his sister Ah Lan, but he had married into wealth and his wife’s wishes were important, more important than those of his sister. He sat back, folded his arms and listened while Kang recounted the threats of his landlord and Ah Lan’s story about a Chinese Christian nun.
“First of all,” Huang said with emphasis, rolling his tongue over the words, “I can’t help you with money. You know how hard it is for me.” He lowered his voice and looked round him to see if anyone was within earshot. He was embarrassed to have to explain his own situation. “I have to account for everything. I can’t just siphon out money. My wife will know. I have loaned you money earlier this year to help you buy seeds; last year I helped with your rent. I can’t do it again.”
“Big brother, I know, I know. We are grateful. We have nothing to defend ourselves against natural calamity. The crop failed last year because of drought. Please, we have no one to turn to.”
“Why not take their suggestion and let them have Li Ling?”
“No! No! Ah Lan will not agree to it. Do you know this nun she spoke about, the one they call Sister Mary?”
“I have heard of her. She is a bold woman by all accounts. In my view, a woman who travels alone, who forsakes her own Chinese name and adopts a foreign one is an unworthy chattel. She has defied the teachings of Confucius. Can you trust such a person who has given her soul and her name to the foreign devils?”
Kang’s mouth dropped. He had not thought of it this way and now felt the full impact of his brother-in-law’s words. There had been increasing resentment against foreigners ever since the Opium Wars. He needed only to look across the street to know why. He looked out of the window to the building on the opposite side of the road. He had passed it many times and observed the people coming out of the den. Their eyes were inevitably glazed and their skin had an unhealthy glassy shine. He wondered how one could be lured into the depravity of opium smoking. Yet he had no doubt that there were many such people. Even in this tucked-away village in Guangdong, hundreds had fallen into the trap. His brother-in-law had told him that almost half the young men in China were imbibing opium. Foreigners brought the opiate freely into the country and the Emperor could not do anything having lost the war against it. He had been forced to accede to their demands to bring opium to China under the Treaty of Tientsin.
“This woman is not the only one who has gone over to the foreign devils.” Huang sat back and folded his arms before continuing.
“These gwei loh are buying people’s souls by giving them food and shelter. Yet they do not care enough to learn their names, forcing them to take on foreign ones! Huh! Why do they call her Mary when she has a perfectly respectable name? Do you consider that kindness? Why does she allow them to defile her name? Far better to let Li Ling marry the warlord than recruit such a woman’s help.”
Kang got up. He knew that there was little use in pursuing the subject; his brother-in-law’s attention was already elsewhere. He was once more gazing with rapt attention at the group of men and their songbirds. “I’ll take my leave and talk this over with Ah Lan,” Kang said, getting up. Huang did not hear him.
***
With a heavy heart, Kang made his way to the market square. It was crowded. To one side of the square were a couple of stalls that sold food. In one, steamed white buns stuffed with meat were stacked shoulder high on the stall. In the other, a man was dishing out scalding hot stew into rough china bowls. Kang sniffed, his mouth salivated. He recognised the aroma, pork ribs and intestines stewed in soya sauce with a hint of aniseed, cinnamon and cloves. His eyes followed a man holding a bowl. He was tucking into the dish with relish. He was seated on a rough wooden stool and, with a pair of chopsticks, was dunking batons of crispy fried youtiao, bread sticks, into the dark rich sauce. Kang felt his stomach rumble with hunger. He turned away and walked to the far end of the square to join a group of men. They too were staring at the two food stalls with eyes filled with longing.
“Maybe they will give us some if they can’t sell all the food,” said one in jest.
“Huh! Are you dreaming? Of course they won’t,” said another.
“Look, not many people are buying. Who can afford it? So there will be leftovers.”
“If you want to eat, and don’t care about who gives it to you, then you stand a better chance if you go to the old temple,” said another. “Ever since the foreign women took over the building, they have been doling out food once a day around this time. Just thin gruel! Still, something to fill the stomach.”
“My family would turn in their graves if I were to do that. My ancestral tablets were kept in the temple in the past. I do not know where they are now. How is it right that our place of worship has to be given up to foreigners?”
“Keep your voice down. These foreign devils have special powers. Under the treaties they extracted from the Imperial Government, the Missionary compound has special rights. Even the Imperial force cannot venture in to exert their control.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. The Imperial force might be bound to the treaties, but our brothers are not similarly constrained. They have fled to the mountains to train and prepare for the day we can expel foreigners from our land. Did you hear what happened to the foreign missionaries in the village to the north of us?” He paused for effect and looked around him. Then with a deliberate swift motion, he drew his index finger across his neck.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“Do you know who was responsible?” asked a man standing at the edge of the crowd. His question was received with stony silence. Everyone stared ahead. They pretended they had not heard. That is all except for a burly fellow. With a quick glance around, he held out his fist and punched the air. “That’s who,” he whispered in reply, leaning in to the ear of the questioner.
“Why do we need their food?” countered another, seemingly oblivious to the exchange. “Do you not remember that in this very village we had a similar system? Old Master Tao always gave food to the poor until he was bankrupted. He lost his family and business because of the wars waged on us by the foreigners. Are we to be grateful to the foreigners because now they feed us? Remember the previous missionary, the guy with the big nose—I mean the one that presided before the present lady doctor at the Mission? He helped the foreigners who invaded the village during the opium war.”
Kang, squeezed in from all sides, looked from one angry face to the other. In a voice that was barely a whisper, he asked. “Has anyone heard of Sister Mary, a Chinese nun?”
His question was immediately greeted with derisive laughter.
“That turncoat! The one that brought her aunt from Beiliu to the Missionary?”
“No! No, that is not true. She is a good woman, at least she has been good to my family,” protested one of the men. He had kept silent until then. Now all eyes were on him for his bold intervention. “My sister-in-law was able to join my brother in Singapore because of her,” he explained. “The foreign missionaries are not bad people. They are doctors, here to help us.” His eyes darted from one angry face to another. His voice wobbled and trailed off, drowned by the angry muttering that followed. Everyone, it seemed, had a view on Chinese women who take up the foreign religion.
Kang held his breath. So what his wife said was true. The Chinese nun was helping people leave China. He edged closer to the man who had just spoken and whispered in his ear. “Can you tell me how to reach Sister Mary?