A woman’s duty is not to control or take charge. Instead she must follow the “three submissions.” When she is young, she must submit to her parents. After her marriage, she must submit to her husband. When she is widowed, she must submit to her son. These are the rules of propriety.
FIVE
Maange Foon—Blind Marriage
AH THLOO: JANUARY 1929
“Father is back from the photographer’s shop,” Ah Thoo’s mother said. “Hurry, pour him a cup of tea and make him comfortable while we look at the family portrait.”
Ah Thloo had had her first photograph taken a few days before; her father was returning from the market town with a copy of it. She had just turned eighteen, and the photography session had created mixed emotions—it was exciting because it was a new experience but frightening because of its portents for her future.
What would she look like? Would the camera capture an image different from the one she had seen reflected in the dark mirror in her parents’ bedroom? Not that she was vain—she had never had time to worry about how she looked to others—she was just curious. This likeness would last forever. She was glad the photograph had included her parents and her younger brother. Perhaps her father would give her a copy to keep after she was married.
The photographer had lent her some fancy clothes to wear for the sitting. The garments had made her feel thloo muun, sophisticated, even though they had smelled fusty, redolent of many other nervous, unwashed, adolescent female bodies. In the dressing room, she had posed before the small mirror, tucking each forearm into the opposite sleeve of her jacket, pretending to be a landlord’s daughter with nothing better to do with her hands than hold a fan. She marvelled at the feel of her bare legs under the smooth fabric of the borrowed skirt. Her feet weren’t quite as comfortable. For the first time in her life, they were encased in socks, which itched worse than leech bites, and stuffed into a pair of cloth shoes too small for her. She had been relieved to be rid of those encumbrances, and couldn’t imagine anyone willingly wearing something so uncomfortable and impractical.
The feeling of those shoes cramping her toes gave Ah Thloo a sudden stab of grief for her beloved grandmother who had died only a short time earlier. She felt a simultaneous wave of empathy with her, as well as a renewed sense of pride in her grandmother’s endurance. How she missed those private evenings by Ah Ngange’s bedside!
The momentous photography session would start the next phase of her life. The photo was to be taken to the Moi Ngange, Matchmaker, who had found spouses for her three elder siblings. Ah Thloo’s personal information would be noted and scrutinized by potential in-laws; that was the worst part.
Ah Thloo knew that at eighteen, she was getting to be a law nui, old maid, and as she grew older, it would be harder and more expensive for her parents to marry her off. After much deliberation, they had finally agreed that they should find a suitable husband for their last daughter. As it was, her marriage would stretch their meagre savings. It had been a difficult decision, reluctantly made, for Ah Thloo had proven her value to the family over and over again.
Ah Thloo had never complained, even though her young back was starting to curve from bending over in the rice fields. She had relinquished her responsibilities of caring for the family’s water buffalo to her younger brother when she had moved to the nui oak four years ago, and besides working in the fields, she had also taken over the household chores from her ailing grandmother.
She was clever and creative with her hands. In the company of girls each evening, listening quietly to their gossip and singing the songs of life, Ah Thloo had been building up her trousseau and had completed a mosquito net, neatly embroidered bedding, and personal items like household slippers. Most of the pieces were created from carefully hoarded strips of used fabric. She had gratefully accepted skeins of colourful embroidery thread and beads from her friends for each Gwoh Nien, the New Year celebration.
Through her years of tutelage under Ah Ngange she had become a good cook. Her grandmother had taught her how to make a tasty meal in hard times out of whatever greens, grains, and tubers could be gathered. When times were better and they had meat, she could create a feast. For Gwoh Nien, she could wrap dim sum of any kind in uniform sizes. Everyone in the family agreed they were delicious, even when the stuffing was frugally short of meat. If mastery of the domestic arts was all that was necessary for being a good wife, Ah Thloo would excel.
“Of all our children, Ah Thloo has been the best worker,” Ah Thloo had overheard her mother remark to her father. “I just don’t know how I will manage without her.”
“I know, but we can’t afford to keep her at home much longer,” Ah Poy Lim said. “In the last few years, with warlords and bandits roaming the country, everyone is afraid to build. Aiya, it has been so difficult!”
Ah Poy Lim had found it harder and harder to get paying work, but when Dr. Sun had taken back the reins of government in 1923, he was optimistic that increased unity would soon lead to peace and prosperity. However, Dr. Sun’s untimely death and the subsequent riots in the cities in 1925 had added more uncertainty. Ah Poy Lim was not sure what he thought about General Jiang, the new leader of the Kuomintang Nationalist government. Now a civil war was being waged. He was thankful that the fighting was taking place far north of Guangdong, but the war was not helping the economy. Railways were destroyed and roads were blocked, preventing the safe passage of materials and goods to and from the countryside. Building materials became scarce and prices soared. The political events eventually took their toll on the local economy and on Ah Poy Lim’s family; no one could afford to build houses. To help make ends meet, Ah Poy Lim worked the land, and whenever the battlefields shifted farther north and conditions in the south improved, he would return to construction.
For Ah Thloo, marriage became inevitable, and it meant marriage to a stranger. Few women looked forward to marriage—she was no exception. The concept of marriage for love was becoming fashionable in the big cities but was only a rumour in the countryside, where families still practised arranged marriages. What possible happiness could a woman gain from being shackled to a man whom she had never met and ordered about by his mother for the rest of her life? No wonder the girls called it maange foon, blind marriage.
However, there were no real alternatives. Ah Thloo was practical and obedient; she trusted her parents to find her a good husband. In addition, she was fond of children and wanted her own to love. She was a natural with them; all the neighbours’ children wanted to be close to her.
But men—Ah Thloo had no understanding of them. She did not know how to communicate with them. Her closest relationships with men up to that time had been with her father and older brother. She supposed the relationship between her parents was optimal: they were always cordial to each other, and she never heard her father berate or beat her mother, even during bad times. When they were home, her brother and his wife appeared to have a similarly benign relationship.
While none of them had any interactions with boys or men, the girls in the nui oak still talked about sex. Anyone not blind would have seen the animals around them mating and giving birth, and those who had lived in small homes couldn’t help but overhear intimate sounds between their parents in the night. Some of the girls had even helped their mothers during the birth of younger siblings, so they knew how and where babies came from. It all made for titillating conversations while the girls bent to their needlework, mending, and washing during the evening hours.
Now, Ah Thloo brought her father a small porcelain cup of fresh, hot tea, once he had settled in his straight-backed chair to review the new photograph. Resting on his lap was a large piece of folded brown paper. He had also invited his wife and younger son to join him in the hiang, common room. He sipped loudly on his tea, letting the air cool the scalding liquid to a drinkable temperature, while his family gathered and sat down. Ah Thloo served them too, before pouring herself a cup and sitting down beside her father.
Left to right: Jiang Tew Thloo, mother Jiang Loo Shee, father Jiang Poy Lim, younger brother Jiang Ngien Choo, 1929.
UNKNOWN PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO, CHINA
With a practised hand used to rolling out architectural drawings, he delicately withdrew the photograph from the folder and with a flourish placed it on the table in front of his daughter. This was the most important record of her young life and it was going to determine her future. “See how beautiful you look!” he said with uncharacteristic emotion.
Recognizing his gesture of generosity and his affection for her, she looked up at him, saying simply, “Thank you, Ah Yea.” Staring at her image, she thought with dismay: I don’t recognize myself at all! This girl looks so scared!
• • •
AH DANG
“This one,” said Ah Dang decisively, holding the photograph of a girl and her family. “Yes, this is the girl I want.”
After an appropriate mourning period for his father, Ah Dang completed the selection process for his bride, and his marriage initiated another reinvention of himself.
Ah Dang was with his mother and the Moi Ngange, a woman well known in the market town. He and his mother had visited her a few days earlier and had negotiated and agreed on a price for her bride-seeking services. At their first meeting, she had asked him some questions about himself. They did not focus on his interests, hobbies, or personal preferences for a mate: those facets of his personality were superfluous, unworthy of a flea’s consideration. The most significant information about him was his lineage and the specific date and time of his birth.
“I was born on October 11, 1902.”
“Ah, you are a Water Tiger,” the Moi Ngange said. “Those born under that birth sign are known for being sensitive, candid, and strong!”
“Quick tempered and obstinate too,” Ah Dang’s mother muttered under her breath, just loudly enough for him to hear. He pretended to ignore her barb, but his face started to colour.
As to the exact hour of his birth, he had to make up a time to give the Matchmaker. Not being superstitious, he didn’t much care about its accuracy in defining his personality traits; he was a self-made man.
The next most important information the Moi Ngange required was his genealogy. He told her about his adoptive father’s ancestors, never even considering his birth father’s family line; it had not been relevant for a long time.
“Please accept my condolences on the passing of your illustrious husband,” said the Moi Ngange, looking sincerely at Ah Tew May and then at Ah Dang. “And father.” Of course the Moi Ngange had known of Ah Wong Gay Sieng’s sterling reputation, his success in Gim San, his return to China, and his death eight years earlier.
Ah Dang saw her appraising look and guessed she was considering his worth. He looked modern and prosperous enough in his Western-style suit and leather shoes, and in fact, he had done well in Canada. He had stayed in British Columbia after landing in Vancouver in late 1921, and by the middle of the decade, the province was enjoying an economic boom. Roads were built to deliver services to remote communities. Provincial laws had forbidden the Chinese to work directly on projects involving Crown lands, but Ah Dang had used the new roads to cross the province and find work. Mostly, he cooked at various work camps during the summer and returned to Vancouver’s Chinatown to work in restaurants, in whatever position he could get, in the winter. For a time, he lived in the pretty Kootenay town of Salmo. It was a supply centre for mining and logging and was the recreational hub for the region’s workers. On his days off, he fished for wild salmon in the Columbia River.
He had few vices; remembering his birth father’s gambling and opium smoking, Ah Dang was to forever shun those illusory, hope-draining habits. Instead, he saved most of his earnings. Like his adoptive father, he had decided to make Canada his country, but he intended to leave his mark in China too. In the meantime, he had lived a bachelor’s life, free and unattached—until now.
He had to admit that he had felt the loneliness of being a young, vigorous, single man. He had watched as the old-timers took Aboriginal women as wives. The Indians, as they were called then, appeared to be more accepting of Chinese men than white society, even the women in the brothels. But not all the white prostitutes could afford to turn business away. The comfort he bought from them was only physical and transient, and he wanted something more; perhaps a wife would fill the aching gap in his life.
Armed with the information he had given her, the Matchmaker had calculated his horoscope to help her select potential compatible candidates from her group of eligible girls. She dealt only with girls from respectable, merchant-class families in the district and selected a handful for Ah Dang’s and his mother’s consideration. For each candidate, she had a photograph and a written note, listing the girl’s genealogy, vital statistics, and horoscope.
The Moi Ngange had only started telling them about the girls she had chosen and was about to launch into an enthusiastic endorsement of the third young woman in her file when Ah Dang made his comment. With the first two, the Moi Ngange had handed the photograph to his mother. She responded by making a discreet remark and handing the photo to her son. He would make the final decision.
Stealing another look at the third photograph in his hand, his mother murmured, “This one is a beautiful girl.”
“She is more than beautiful. She has an inner beauty too. I can see her goodness. She is the one for me.”
• • •
AH THLOO
With the Moi Ngange as a go-between, the respective parents had agreed on the bride’s dowry and the reciprocal lai gim, bride price. The dowry would include the items Ah Thloo had made as part of her trousseau. Her parents also bought the furnishings for the couple’s bedchamber, including a woven bamboo bed with a headboard, a dressing table with a mirror and bench, a clothes cabinet, a wooden wash stand with a porcelain bowl and pitcher, and an intricately carved folding privacy screen. These would all be delivered to Ah Thloo’s mother-in-law’s house just prior to the wedding, ready for use on the wedding night. These items constituted her inheritance. As Ah Thloo would be moving to her husband’s parents’ home, it was expected that the furniture for the remainder of the house would already be there.
In addition, as a sign of betrothal, Ah Thloo’s family would provide mounds of dim sum made by their village neighbours. There would be deep-fried gai longe—a crunchy pouch made from sticky rice flour with a savoury stuffing; delicately sweetened, steamed fat gaw—an egg-based cake; and chewy, steamed choot tae—a soft pouch made from sticky rice flour with a sugar filling. The dim sum were carefully layered between clean banana leaves, placed in woven baskets, and delivered to the groom’s home by hired men travelling on foot.
The lai gim agreed to by Ah Dang included a large sum of cash; tins of fragrant teas; baskets of fresh fruits; an assortment of dried foods including mushrooms, shrimp, sea cucumber, and shark fins; several whole roasted pigs; and large baskets of live chickens, ducks, and geese. Some of the money would be used to buy gold jewellery, including thick necklaces, jade earrings, rings, and bracelets for the bride. All the gifts symbolized prosperity and fertility in different ways. His mother also bought stacks of special cakes, stuffed with lotus seeds and imprinted with the character for “double happiness,” to be distributed to friends and relatives of both families to announce the couple’s engagement.
The Moi Ngange had calculated that the earliest and most auspicious day for a match between Ah Dang and Ah Thloo was the eighteenth day of the twelfth month of the lunar calendar, so they had less than three months and the preparations were frantic.
Ah Thloo spent the two nights before her wedding day with her friends from the nui oak in her parents’ house. During this time, called nat gok, the girls told stories they’d heard—or made up—about other people’s wedding nights, and they practised some of the silly games the groom’s relatives and friends were expected to play on Ah Thloo and her husband. The games had been initiated long ago as a way to frighten off evil spirits in the bridal chamber by making it noisy and crowded. The activities, such as making the couple peel and eat a single lychee fruit between them, with their hands tied behind their backs, were meant to make the partners interact physically and often involved opportunities to kiss and grope. For newlyweds, whose culture frowned on public displays of intimacy, the games were excruciating and humiliating. While both the bride and groom were targeted, the bride especially was expected to stay quiet and cooperative throughout.
Practising the games naturally led to talk about the wedding night. Traditionally, a piece of white cloth was placed on the bed and a bloody stain was displayed to the bride’s in-laws on the following morning to prove she had been a virgin. A raucous discussion ensued when Ah Kange whispered conspiratorially, “In the city, no one bothers to do that anymore because the wedding couple gets so drunk, everyone stays virginal until the next night!”
The girls also sang songs lamenting the lot of women and the forced separation of a daughter from her family. The songs cursed the people who made this happen, including the Moi Ngange, the parents, and the future in-laws. Themes ranged from “My Parents Have Sold Me to Strangers Who Love [to Beat] Me” to “My Husband Is a [something uncomplimentary].” A favourite one was “My Mother Has a Black Heart”:
Radish white skin, black heart
Skin is tight
My mother has black heart
Frightening black lips.
The girls shouted the words of this last song and wagged accusing fingers at Ah Thloo’s mother, who pretended to cower in fright. Ah Shee herself had sung the same songs before her own wedding, so she did not take the accusations personally. In their perverse way, these activities were all part of a ritual for good luck in the coming marriage.
The songs were sung with gusto, accompanied by tears of sorrow. Ah Thloo would be sadly missed by her girlhood friends, and none of them knew if or when they would see her again. It all depended on whether her husband and in-laws would allow her to come home for visits, but then, some of the other girls would be married off too.
The girls laughed at the absurdity of arranged marriages, in defiance of their future mothers-in-law, and at the foolish behaviours of men. They took turns irreverently reciting ancient Confucian quotations about the characteristics of the “perfect woman.” They reminisced, retold favourite stories about their times together, and laughed till they cried. Ah Thloo tucked away the memory of those two nights, to be opened and relived in precious segments during her future exile as a wife.
Before dawn on the day of the wedding, the girls helped Ah Thloo bathe and dress. As part of her wedding present, Ah Kange had given her friend a bar of sandalwood soap and had lent a tin bath from her home for this special occasion. Ah Ma had a neighbour draw clean water from the communal well, brought home in buckets carefully balanced on a bamboo carrying-pole, and poured into several large cauldrons to be heated over the coal fire. It took several trips to fill the container even halfway.
Squatting in the tub in her parents’ bedroom, Ah Thloo had her first bath. She was helped by Ah Kange to be thoroughly scrubbed and massaged from scalp to toes; the rough cloth foamed with suds from the fragrant soap. The water had been infused with the skin of pomelos to ward off evil spirits. Brown ropes of law nai, old skin caked with dirt, floated in the water and formed a sticky ring around the tub. Ah Thloo’s skin tingled from being newly exposed and the oils from the grapefruit rinds made her feel smooth and soft. Her long tresses were soaped until they squeaked.
“You have to smell beautiful for your husband—a Gim San law would expect it!” her friend said with a sly chuckle. She told the group of unbelieving girls that people in Gim San had tubs in which a whole body could be immersed in running hot water, and that the water was used only for bathing and nothing else!
Few people in rural China could afford to bathe: most just used a cold, damp cloth to wipe here and there. On occasion, they might immerse themselves, fully clothed, in the communal pond that served as a wash area for clothes as well as a watering hole for any of the village animals. The villagers might not emerge from the pond much cleaner, but perhaps they were a bit refreshed. All the water used on the wedding day would be skimmed, used to wash clothes, and finally to water the vegetable garden.
Ah Thloo was being very spoiled; even the rinse water was heated. Poured from a large, blackened kettle, the lukewarm liquid provided her with another new experience. Ah Kange almost dropped the kettle on her feet, doubling over in laughter at the way Ah Thloo sputtered and spat as the water streamed over her hair and face.
“Are you trying to drown me?” Ah Thloo shouted, finally joining in the laughter in spite of herself. “I’m not a cat!” For the rest of her life, she would never get used to holding her breath while water was poured on her head. She used the shower on her body but insisted on washing her hair by bending forward at the sink.
Rubbed dry after this pre-nuptial bath, Ah Thloo was ready to be dressed. Ah Ma had bought her a new red wedding outfit consisting of a full, floor-length skirt and a loose-fitting embroidered jacket. It had a traditional high collar, long, wide sleeves, and a side opening fastened with handmade frogs. Like everything else about this marriage, the outfit had not been chosen by Ah Thloo and she had not been asked for her opinion.
But it was the first piece of new clothing she had ever owned! If it had been made of the roughest cotton, and not silk, she would still have thought it beautiful. As each piece was put on, her calloused, work-worn hands caught on the smooth fabric but she couldn’t stop touching it. She felt very sophisticated, just as she had at the photographer’s studio. Her mother had also bought her a new pair of trousers and two new tops. The pieces would have to last for the three-day wedding celebration. Ah Thloo hugged her mother for the gift of clothes.
Of course it was Ah Kange who noticed. Everyone else was quite pleased with how beautiful Ah Thloo looked in the outfit, but she was missing a vital piece of clothing no one else had even thought about.
“What kind of panties will you be wearing under the skirt?” Ah Kange asked, after Ah Thloo’s mother had left the room. No one wore bras—if one’s breasts were large, one just bound them in place with a strip of cloth.
“What are panties? You know I only have two pairs of pants. I’m decently covered by this skirt . . . aren’t I?”
“Panties are worn as aie foo, underwear. You wear them under your other clothes. The girls in the city wear underwear all the time,” Ah Kange said knowingly. “As a bride you must have a pair, especially if you are marrying a Gim San law. He probably knows all about them!”
“But I can’t ask Ah Ma to spend any more money! Where would they sell such stuff around here?” Ah Thloo was starting to panic, but her practicality soon took over. “It won’t matter. By the time he finds I have no underwear, we will be married!”
“True, but wouldn’t you like to show off how modern you are?” With a smile, Ah Kange presented Ah Thloo with a small, wrapped package.
Ah Thloo was speechless when she saw the silk bloomers. Ah Kange had to help her put them on, as the wedding outfit, with its long sleeves and skirt, made it difficult for her to manoeuvre; the smooth fabric kept slipping or getting caught up. Once on, the underwear, rubbing between her thighs, made her even more self-conscious.
Ah Kange also helped Ah Thloo make up her face with dabs of rouge on her cheeks and lips. The bride’s hair was oiled, plaited, and wound into an elaborate bun on the back of her head. To complete the wedding outfit, a heavy, formal headdress, with a long fringe of red beads that covered her face, was carefully placed and pinned to her hair. The beads prevented her from seeing much of anything.
Fully dressed, she was finally presented to her parents. She kowtowed to them, bowing low to show her love and respect, and turned to bow several times in front of the family shrine. Then she bade them a final farewell as their daughter. When she returned for a visit, she would belong to another family.
Her friends started to cry again as they all made their way to the door of the house. From here, the bride was not allowed to lok aye, let her feet touch the ground. Ah Thloo was piggybacked from her house by a village woman and transferred to a lieng giew, a sedan chair, made of woven bamboo. A throng of relatives and village well-wishers crowded in front of the house and lined the streets. Preceded by professional announcers hired to let other villages know that a bride was on her way, and followed by transporters balancing her trousseau trunks and other bridal gifts on bamboo carrying-poles, Ah Thloo was borne to her future husband’s village by a four-man sedan team. A long chain of tien, copper coins, tied together with red string, hung from the sedan. Its jingling length let onlookers know that this was a bride of some worth.
This was Ah Thloo’s first long journey. Until then, she had walked everywhere, but she was being treated like an empress. That initial trip to her future home, less than twenty kilometres away, took most of the day on the meandering footpaths between the rice fields, particularly as the bridal column slowed down in each community to show off the trousseau. She should have been more afraid; she was alone, in the company of male strangers, going to an unknown destination. There was no possibility of distracting herself by gazing at the passing scenery because her headdress was firmly attached to her hair, and even if she had held apart the beaded veil, the sedan’s heavy curtains would have obstructed her view.
She was going to marry “blind” in more ways than one. Not only could she not see the road ahead of her, she knew nothing about the man she was to marry. What did he look like? Would he like her? How should she act with him? The uncertainty made her heart pound like an exploding string of firecrackers at Gwoh Nien. All she had was faith—faith that her parents, who loved her, had tried their best to find her a good husband, faith that generations of women before her had survived blind marriages, and faith that her grandmother’s wisdom, instilled in her being, would guide her to meet the challenges ahead.
Besides, it was too late to change her mind. Tied down and bolted securely on the outside, the doors of the wedding sedans were designed to prevent reluctant brides from escaping and making a run for it.
• • •
AH THLOO AND AH DANG: WEDDING DAY
Finally at her destination, Ah Thloo climbed onto the waiting back of another local village woman, to be piggybacked inside the house. There, the Moi Ngange greeted her and introduced her to Ah Dang by placing their hands together. Holding her, Ah Dang led her through the formal ceremonies that would make them husband and wife.
First Ah Dang guided Ah Thloo to the household shrine. Representing his ancestors was a photograph of his father and red ribbons with the names of his father’s forefathers written in black ink. There, the couple kowtowed together before the display. Following a Western custom, he slipped a ring on the third finger of Ah Thloo’s left hand. He also gave her a watch.
After the ancestor worship, Ah Dang led Ah Thloo to his mother. Again, the couple bowed low, showing their respect for her. The bride poured and formally served a cup of tea to Ah Tew May. By drinking the tea, she accepted Ah Thloo. She reciprocated by hanging the gold chains Ah Dang had bought around her new daughter-in-law’s neck and slipping the solid, carved jade bracelets around her wrists. The couple was now formally married and Ah Dang parted the beads of the headdress to look at his bride’s face.
Gazing up at him shyly but curiously, Ah Thloo saw for the first time the face of the man she had just married. He was very handsome, with intelligent-looking eyes and soft, full lips. He was smiling at her and his eyes shone brightly. He seemed pleased. His hands, holding the fringe open, shook a bit, and the beads jingled. He leaned into her face and gave it a quick, chaste kiss. He smiled again. This time she noticed a slight gap between his two front teeth.
Then he took her by the hand outside to the courtyard, where everyone had gathered to see the bride. The rest of the evening passed in a maelstrom of activity and noise as Ah Thloo was passed from neighbour to neighbour, to be gawked at, touched, and tested. The games began when the wedding banquet was served. Everything she did—the way she walked, how she held her chopsticks, what she ate, how she poured tea—was commented on. And everyone, except the bride, was allowed to share his or her opinion. At one point, Ah Thloo was helped out of her headdress, so the guests could have a better look at her face.
Throughout the festivities, Ah Dang was courteous and considerate. At the banquet, when traditionally the bride would eat with the women, apart from her new husband and the men, he had insisted on sitting beside her. Tea and rice wine accompanied the meal and Ah Dang had bought bottles of brandy for toasting. He picked out the best pieces from each dish with his chopsticks and placed them in her bowl. He kept her teacup filled. These were the tasks traditionally expected of a wife. He continued to hold her hand or pat her back. His constant touching made her blush and she had to remind herself that she was his wife and tried not to be startled or shrink from him. She supposed he had learned these odd manners living in Gim San.
After all the food and drink had been consumed and the wedding games played, the guests departed. All the furniture the bride had brought with her had been arranged in one corner of the small house, and the privacy screen had been placed at the foot of the bed. It would not be necessary for a while, as Ah Tew May and Ah Moydoy had moved into a neighbour’s house when Ah Dang arrived. The couple was finally left alone.
He had not talked much during the evening, but that was all right—she had not known what to say to him either. His polite manners had made her feel more at ease, and by the end of the party, she felt she could talk with him. She was exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. There was one more duty to perform, but from his previous behaviour, she thought he might be willing to consent to her suggestion to postpone conjugal relations to the next day. To her great disappointment, he reacted with rage.
“I’ve waited all these months for you! I will not be denied my marital rights!”
“I thought you had consideration. You don’t care about me at all!”
“I chose you—you are mine. You will obey me!”
When she had refused to bend, he tried to break her with harsh words, accusing her of being un-virginal, insulting her. This infuriated her even more. In the end, he unhooked his leather belt and used it as a strap. When she fought back, he was so surprised that he stopped. He did not hit her again, but neither did he touch her until some days had passed. She later submitted—not to his will, but to her duty.
Their wedding night was not what either of them had expected. It resulted in humiliation and pain for both of them, and their misunderstanding, miscued actions, and angry words were to colour their relationship for the rest of their lives.
Another banquet was held the next afternoon, after their visit to the photographer’s studio. Ah Thloo wore another of the new outfits her mother had bought and a few of the neighbouring women came to dress her hair. It was decorated with fresh flowers, in a style called fa haang.
Again, the neighbours ate every morsel brought out from the kitchen and drank to the last drop anything that smelled fermented until they had to resort to tea. On this occasion, Ah Thloo was allowed to speak. However, drained from the previous day’s activities and thlem tiek, with a hurting heart, from the night’s confrontation, she kept her opinions to herself. Everyone thought she was very virtuous.
On the third day, her husband accompanied Ah Thloo back to her parents’ home. There, they poured tea for her parents, and Ah Dang was acknowledged as their son-in-law. Following the tea ceremony, her parents presented Ah Thloo with their wedding gifts of gold and jade. There would never be much contact between her parents and her husband; thereafter, Ah Thloo would visit her parents on her own.
During the time Ah Dang stayed in China after the wedding, Ah Thloo used the legitimate excuse of working in the fields to avoid his company. She supposed that he had ways to keep himself occupied; she never saw him in the fields. She did not really care.
His words had hurt more than his physical abuse. Eventually, he apologized for forcing her and hitting her, but not for what he had said. When they were together now, he was gentle with her. But she could not forget his selfishness or his total disregard for her feelings in his barbed words, and her hurt prevented her from feeling any warmth toward him.
• • •
Ah Dang underwent another reinvention. Following the local custom, as a married man he was given another name. It was Libp Thlange, meaning “Establish Faith.” While his mother stubbornly refused to change what she called him, his wife henceforth addressed him as Ah Libp Thlange.
He stayed in China for seven more months. He had seen something he liked in his bride on their wedding night. She had gumption and had fought back, kicking and scratching. He admired courage. He did not tell her about his feelings, but he was intrigued enough to stay with her, for a while.
It was an awkward period for both of them. Each was stubborn. Neither knew how to bend like the willow in the wind; each wanted to be the wind. During the day, they lived separate lives. He frequented the market towns and teahouses, trying to make sense of the rumours of a stock market crash and its subsequent effects around the world. With nothing invested, he hadn’t been personally affected, but he was biding his time in China in the hopes that the economy in Canada would turn around.
He was also waiting for his wife to come to her senses. She finally did allow him his conjugal rights, but her attitude and behaviour toward him stayed cold. After half a year, he made plans to leave.
He made plans for her too. The Canadian borders were still closed to new Chinese immigrants, even to family members, so he could not take his wife with him. However, he had seen something else in her that would simplify their lives while he was in Canada. He had watched as she dealt with problems in the fields or with people in the hamlet. She worked things out. He saw her intelligence and was pleased that he had not married a “bamboo,” someone who was empty-headed. He arranged for her to attend school to learn to read and write.
In the cities, integrated schools had been established for years, but the rural areas were still combating illiteracy in the general population. On farms, women were valued more for their labour than for their brains. Few families could afford to send their boys to be educated, let alone girls.
In every market town, professional letter writers would read the correspondence sent from foreign lands and compose the responses. Because of their education, they would also “interpret” the amount of money sent in a bank draft and “help” the recipient cash the cheque. The client had to trust in their honesty.
Ah Dang had worked too hard for his money to be cheated by dishonest letter writers, and Ah Thloo’s education would prevent that from happening, but she would need every bit of gumption to stay in school; he knew his mother would not approve of his plan.
He told Ah Thloo what he had done for her in the way of schooling just before he departed for Guangzhou. She was then left behind to live with her mother-in-law and sister-in-law in their one-room house.
