The Ghost Bride: A Novel Read online

  “What shall we do with your hair?” asked Amah, forgetting that she had disapproved of this visit only moments ago. My hair was usually kept in two neat plaits, though for special occasions it was skewered up with long hairpins. These gave me a headache, particularly when wielded by Amah, who was determined that not one strand should stray. Stepping back, she surveyed her handiwork and stuck in a couple of gold pins with jade butterflies. The hairpins were also my mother’s. After that, she clasped no less than five necklaces around my neck: two of gold; one of garnets; another of small freshwater pearls; and the last with a heavy jade disk. I felt quite burdened by this largesse, but it was nothing compared to what wealthier people wore. Women had little security other than jewelry, so even the poorest among us sported gold chains, earrings, and rings as their insurance. As for the rich—well, I would soon see how Madam Lim was attired.

  The Lim mansion was farther out of town, away from the close quarters of Jonker and Heeren Streets, where wealthy Chinese merchants had taken over old Dutch shop houses. I heard that the Lims too had such property, but they had moved their main residence to where the rich were building new estates in Klebang. It wasn’t too far from our house, though I had heard it was nothing like the European quarter’s villas and bungalows. Those were very grand, indeed, with many servants, stables, and great expanses of green lawn. The Lim mansion was in the Chinese style and said to be quite imposing in its own right. Amah had called for a rickshaw to take us there, although I thought it wasteful when we could have walked. She pointed out, however, that it was still a fair distance and it would do no good to appear covered in sweat and dust.

  The afternoon sun had begun to abate when we set off. Waves of heat rose from the road along with clouds of fine white dust. Our rickshaw puller moved at a steady trot, rivulets of sweat streaking his back. I felt sorry for those coolies who hired themselves out in this manner. It was a hard way to make a living, although better than working in the tin mines, where I had heard the mortality rate was almost one in two. The rickshaw pullers were very thin, with concave rib cages, leathery skin, and bare feet so calloused that they resembled hooves. Still, the scrutiny of these strange men made me uneasy. Of course, I was not supposed to go out unaccompanied and when I did, must shade my face with an oiled-paper parasol. Before I could muse much further, however, we had drawn up to the Lim mansion. While Amah gave the rickshaw puller stern instructions to wait for us outside, I gazed at the heavy ironwood doors, which swung open noiselessly to reveal an equally silent servant.

  We passed through a courtyard lined with large porcelain pots planted with bougainvillea. The pots alone were worth a small fortune and had been shipped from China, nestled in chests of tea leaves to protect against breakage. The blue-and-white glaze had the limpid quality that I had seen on the few small pieces that my father still possessed. If such costly ceramics were left out in the sun and rain, then I was certainly impressed. Perhaps that was the point. We waited in a grand foyer while the servant went ahead to announce us. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard and the sweeping teak staircase had carved balustrades. And all around there were clocks.

  Such clocks! The walls were covered with dozens of clocks in every style imaginable. Large ones stood on the floor and smaller examples nestled on side tables. There were cuckoo clocks, porcelain clocks, delicate ormolu clocks, and a tiny clock no larger than a quail’s egg. Their glass faces shone and the brass ornaments winked. All about us rose the hum of their works. Time, it seemed, could scarcely go unmarked in this house.

  While I was admiring this sight, the servant reappeared and we were ushered through a further sequence of rooms. The house, like many Chinese mansions, was built in a series of courtyards and connecting corridors. We passed through stone gardens arranged like miniature landscapes and parlors stiff with antique furniture, until I heard the raised chatter of women’s voices and the sharp clack of mahjong tiles. Five tables had been set up and I had an impression of well-dressed ladies who put my own attire to shame. But my eyes were fixed on the head table, where the servant muttered something to a woman who could only have been Madam Lim.

  At first glance I was disappointed. I had penetrated so far into this domain that I was expecting, perhaps naively, nothing less than the Queen of Heaven. Instead, she was a middle-aged woman with a figure that had thickened at the waist. She was dressed beautifully but severely in an inky-hued baju panjang to signify mourning. Her son had died nine months ago but she would mourn him at least a year. She was almost overshadowed by the woman who sat next to her. She too wore blue and white mourning colors, but her stylish kebaya had a waspish cut, and her jeweled hairpins gave her an insect-like glitter. I would have thought that she was the lady of the house except for the fact that she, like the other women at the table, couldn’t help but glance at Madam Lim as though to take their cue from her. I learned later that she was the Third Wife.

  “I’m glad you could come,” said Madam Lim. She had a soft voice, strangely youthful and much like the purring of a dove. I had to strain to hear her over the surrounding chatter.

  “Thank you, Auntie,” I replied, for that was how we addressed older women as a mark of respect. I wasn’t sure whether to bob my head or bow. How I wished I had paid more attention to such niceties!

  “I knew your mother before she was married, when we were children,” she said. “She never mentioned it?” Seeing my surprise, Madam Lim showed her teeth briefly in a smile. “Your mother and I are distantly related.” This I had never heard of either. “I should have asked after you earlier,” said Madam Lim, “It was very remiss of me.” Around her the mahjong game started up again with a brisk clatter. She gestured to a servant, who pulled up a marble-topped stool beside her. “Come, Li Lan. I hear that you don’t play, but perhaps you’d like to watch.”

  So I sat next to her, looking at her tiles while she made bids, and nibbling sweetmeats that issued in a never-ending stream from the kitchens. They had all my favorite kinds of kuih—the soft steamed nyonya cakes made of glutinous rice flour stuffed with palm sugar or shredded coconut. There were delicate rolled biscuits called love letters and pineapple tarts pressed out of rich pastry. Bowls of toasted watermelon seeds were passed around, along with fanned slices of mango and papaya. It had been a long time since we had had such an assortment of treats at home, and I couldn’t help indulging myself like a child. From the corner of my eye I saw Amah shake her head, but here she was powerless to stop me. At length Amah disappeared to the kitchen to help out, and without her disapproving eye, I continued eating.

  From time to time, Madam Lim murmured something to me. Her voice was so soft, however, that I scarcely understood her. I smiled and nodded, all the while gazing around with undisguised curiosity. I rarely had the chance to go out in society. Had my mother lived, I might have sat beside her just like this, peering over her shoulder at the ivory tiles and soaking up gossip. These women peppered their conversation with sly references to important people and places. With nonchalance, they mentioned what seemed to me astounding gambling debts.

  Madam Lim must have thought me simple or at the very least unsophisticated. I caught her sharp pigeon eyes studying me from time to time. Strangely enough, this seemed to relieve her. Only much later did I understand why she was so pleased with my gauche performance. Around us, the ladies chattered and made bets, jade bangles ringing as the tiles clattered. The Third Wife had moved to another table, which was a pity since I would have liked to study her a little more. She was certainly handsome, though she had a reputation for being difficult, as Amah had earlier found out through servants’ chatter. I saw no sign of a Second Wife, although I was told that Lim himself, as a rich man’s prerogative, kept other minor concubines whom he had not bothered to marry. There were four daughters from the different wives but no surviving sons. Two had died in infancy and the last, Lim Tian Ching, had been buried less than a year ago. I had wanted to ask Amah how he died
but she was unwilling to discuss it, claiming there was no use having any interest in him since I would never be married to him. As it was, the only heir was Lim’s nephew.

  “Actually he is the rightful heir,” Amah had said on our way there.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s Lim’s older brother’s son. Lim himself is the second son. He took over the estate when his older brother died, but promised to bring up his nephew as his heir. As time went on, however, people said that maybe he didn’t want to overlook his own children. But what’s there to talk about anyway? Lim has no more sons of his own now.”

  As I considered this web of relationships, I couldn’t help feeling a frisson of excitement. It was a world of wealth and intrigue, much like the crudely printed romances that my father was so dismissive of. Of course Amah disapproved. I knew, however, that she too was secretly enthralled. It was so different from our own penurious household. How depressing it was to think of how we scraped along year by year, always trying to stretch things and never buying anything pretty or new! The worst was that my father never did anything. He no longer went out to make contracts or run his business. He had given all that up and was walled up in his study, endlessly copying his favorite poems and writing obscure treatises. Lately, I felt that we were all penned up with him too.

  “You look sad.” Madam Lim’s voice broke in on me. Nothing seemed to escape her gaze. Her eyes were light for a Chinese, and the pupils small and round, like the eyes of a bird.

  I colored. “This house is so lively compared with my own home.”

  “You like it here?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Tell me,” she said, “do you have a sweetheart?”

  “No.” I stared fixedly at my hands.

  “Well,” she said, “a young girl shouldn’t be too worldly.” She gave me one of her abbreviated smiles. “My dear, I hope you’re not offended that I ask you so many questions. You remind me so much of your mother, and also myself when I was younger.”

  I refrained from asking her about her own daughters. There were a few young women at the other tables, but everyone had been introduced to me in such a cursory manner that I had a hard time keeping track of who was a cousin, friend, or daughter.

  The mahjong game continued but as I wasn’t a player, I began to feel restless after a while. When I excused myself to use the washroom, Madam Lim beckoned a servant to escort me. She was in the middle of an exciting hand and I hoped she would stay that way for a while. The servant led me along various passages to a heavy chengal wood door. When I was done, I opened it a crack. My guide was still waiting patiently outside. But there was a call down the hallway and, casting a quick glance at the door, she left to answer it.

  With a thrill, I slipped out. The house was built in a series of courtyards with rooms looking into them. I passed a small sitting room, and then one with a marble table, half laid for a meal. Hearing voices, I turned hastily down yet another passageway into a courtyard with a small pond, where lotus flowers tilted their creamy heads amid green stalks. A sultry, dreamlike stillness settled over everything. I knew I ought to go back before I was missed, but still I lingered.

  While I was examining the lotus seedpods, which resembled the nozzles of watering cans, I heard a faint silvery chime. Perhaps I was near the clock room after all. Wandering over, I peered into what looked like a study. One door was thrown open to the courtyard, but the interior was dark and cool. Momentarily blinded by the difference in the light, I stumbled against someone working at a low table. It was a young man, dressed in shabby indigo cotton. Cogs and gears scattered on the table and floor, rolling away into the corners.

  “I’m sorry, miss. . . . ” He glanced up with an apologetic air.

  “I heard the chiming,” I said awkwardly, helping him gather the pieces as best I could.

  “You like clocks?”

  “I don’t know much about them.”

  “Well, without this gear, and this one, the clock stops completely,” he said, collecting the shining innards of a brass pocket watch. With a pair of tweezers, he picked up two tiny cogs and laid them together.

  “Can you fix it?” I really shouldn’t be having this conversation with a young man, even if he was a servant, but he bent over his work, which put me at ease.

  “I’m not an expert but I can put it back together. My grandfather taught me.”

  “It’s a useful skill,” I said. “You should open your own shop.”

  At that he looked up quizzically at me, then smiled. When he smiled, his thick eyebrows drew together and his eyes crinkled at the corners. I felt my cheeks grow hot.

  “Do you clean all the clocks?”

  “Sometimes. I also do a little accounting and I run errands.” He was looking directly at me. “I saw you beside the pond earlier.”

  “Oh.” To hide my discomfort I asked, “Why are there so many clocks in this house?”

  “Some say it was a hobby, perhaps even an obsession with the old master. He was the one who collected all of them. He could never rest until he had acquired a new specimen.”

  “Why was he so interested in them?”

  “Well, mechanical clocks are far more precise than water clocks that tell time by dripping water, or candles where you burn tallow to mark hours. These Western clocks are so accurate that you can use them to sail with longitude, not just latitude. Do you know what that is?”

  I did, as a matter of fact. My father had explained to me once how the sea charts were marked both horizontally and vertically. “Couldn’t we sail with longitude before?”

  “No, in the past the great sea routes were all latitude. That’s because it’s the easiest way to plot a course. But imagine you’re far out at sea. All you have is a sextant and a compass. You need to know exactly what time it is so you can reckon the relative position of the sun. That’s why these clocks are so wonderful. With them, the Portuguese sailed all the way from the other side of the world.”

  “Why didn’t we do that too?” I asked. “We should have conquered them before they came to Malaya.”

  “Ah, Malaya is just a backwater. But China could have done it. The Ming sea captains sailed as far as Africa, using only latitude and pilots who knew the local waters.”

  “Yes,” I said eagerly. “I read that they brought back a giraffe for the emperor. But he wasn’t interested in barbarian lands.”

  “And now China is in decline, and Malaya just another European colony.”

  His words had a faint tinge of bitterness, which made me curious because his hair was cut short with no shaved pate or long hanging queue, the braided hair that many men still maintained even after leaving China. This was either a sign of extreme low class, or rebellion against traditional practices. But he merely smiled. “Still, there’s a lot to learn from the British.”

  There were many other questions I wanted to ask him, but with a start I realized I had been gone too long. And no matter how polite he seemed, it was still improper to talk to a strange young man even if he was only a servant.

  “I must go.”

  “Wait, miss. Do you know where you’re going?”

  “I came from the mahjong party.”

  “Should I escort you back?” He half rose from the desk and I couldn’t help noticing the ease of his clean-limbed movements.

  “No, no.” The more I thought about my behavior, the more embarrassed I felt and the more certain I was that I had been missed. I practically ran out of the room. Darting down several passages, I found myself in yet another part of the house. Luck was with me, however. While I was standing there undecided, the same servant who had escorted me to the washroom reappeared.

  “Oh, miss,” she said. “I just stepped away and when I came back you were gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, smoothing my dress. “I went astray.”

&nbs
p; When we got back to the mahjong room the game was still underway. I slipped into my seat, but Madam Lim hardly seemed to notice. From the number of tokens piled in front of her, she had been on a winning streak. After a while, I made my polite good-byes, but to my surprise Madam Lim rose to see me out.

  On our way back to the front door, we passed a servant arranging funeral goods to be burned in one of the courtyards. These were miniature effigies of wire and brightly colored paper that were burned for the dead to receive in the underworld: paper horses for the dead to ride on, grand paper mansions, servants, food, stacks of hell currency, carriages, and even paper furniture. It was a little unusual to see these goods laid out now, as they were usually only prepared for funerals and Qing Ming, the festival of the dead. The devout could, however, also burn them at any time for the use of their ancestors, for without such offerings, the dead were mere paupers in the afterworld, and without descendants or proper burial, they wandered unceasingly as hungry ghosts and were unable to be reborn. It was only at Qing Ming, when general offerings were burned to ward off evil, that these unfortunates received a little sustenance. I had always thought it a frightening idea and looked askance at the funeral goods, despite the gay-colored paper and beautifully detailed models.

  As we walked, I studied Madam Lim covertly. The brightness of the courtyard revealed shadows under her eyes and the loose flesh of her cheeks. She looked unutterably weary, although her posture denied such weakness.

  “And how is your father?” she said.

  “He is well, thank you.”

  “Has he made any plans for you?”

  I ducked my head. “Not that I know of.”

  “But you are of marriageable age. A girl like you must already have many offers.”

  “No, Auntie. My father lives quite a retired life.” And we’re not rich anymore, I added to myself.