The Concubine's Daughter Read online

  THE

  CONCUBINE’S DAUGHTER

  THE

  CONCUBINE’S DAUGHTER

  Pai Kit Fai

  St. Martin’s Griffin New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE CONCUBINE’S DAUGHTER. Copyright © 2009 by Pai Kit Fai. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  [http://www.stmartins.com] www.stmartins.com

  Book design by Ruth Lee-Mui

  Calligraphy by Archibald Tsui

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Fai, Pai Kit, 1929–

  The concubine’s daughter / Pai Kit Fai.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-35521-0

  1. Women—China—Social conditions—Fiction. 2. China—Social life and customs—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR 9619.3.P52 C66 2009

  823’.914—dc22

  2009012527

  First Edition: October 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my wife, Phyllis

  Hope Dellon

  Al Zuckerman

  Acknowledgments

  When a book takes a while to finish, there’s a risk you might forget some of those who were with you at the start. First, it’s best to thank those who were beside you every step of the way: My wife, who has lived through a dozen books and never lost faith; an amazing editor, Hope Dellon, who put time and distance aside and shared the journey all the way, including the stony bits; Al Zuckerman, whose calm advice was constant and patience remarkable, and whose incomparable wisdom makes books out of stories and writers out of scribblers.

  They would all have wasted their time if it weren’t for those brave souls who spoke nicely to my computer when I threatened to kill it: dear, reliable Christine Lenton was always there for a backup and Richard Harvey, a technical giant who was never too busy. A special thanks to my friends Master John Saw, Blake Powell, Bryce Courtenay, and Justin Milne, and they know why; Derek Goh for his unconditional generosity; and Marabel Caballes, who is as beautiful as her name and talked me through some computer glitches but never raised her voice.

  So many friends who stopped by to make my day, not least that colossus of the Tasmanian bush, Bradley Trevor “Ironbark” Greive, whose mighty words in little books have put smiles upon 20 million faces and one to spare for me.

  PART ONE

  CHILDREN OF THE MOON

  PROLOGUE

  A Thousand Pieces of Gold

  Great Pine Spice Farm on the Pearl River, Southern China, 1906

  Seek every hidden happiness. Collect the smallest of joys.

  Each of these is precious as a piece of pure gold.

  –PAI-LING

  Yik-Munn, the farmer, poured another cup of hot rice wine. His hand shook as though he too felt the agony endured behind the closed doors above. He had heard such commotion many times, and to him the shrieks of Number Four might just as well be the squeals of a sow advanced upon with a dull blade. Even in this small room, chosen for its isolation and quiet darkness, her bleating was an offense to his ears, following him like a demented wraith as he descended the stairs to seek a moment’s peace and privacy.

  He supposed it was to be expected from the newest and youngest of his women and this, her firstborn. The first always came into the world with much caterwauling, but it opened the way for those yet to come—until they slid out as slickly as a calf from a cow. Still, in the year since he had fetched his concubine from the great northern city of Shanghai to Great Pine Farm—through the mouth of the Pearl River Delta and far into its fertile estuary—he had pondered the wisdom of his purchase on more than one occasion. He pondered it now.

  Pai-Ling was barely fifteen when he bought her from a large family escaping the turmoil of Shanghai. The Ling clan had once been rich and powerful, occupying an extensive compound in the old quarter, well away from the foreign devil’s cantonments. After the Boxer Uprising, all face was lost; they were at the mercy of the tongs as extortion and kidnapping gripped the city in the name of the I-Ho-Chuan, or “Fists of Righ teousness.”

  The Ling family had been left with no alternative but to return to the humble village of their birth. With their sons scattered, their belongings greatly reduced, they decided to sell the youngest daughter, the child of a favorite mistress and considered dispensable. Better that she be sold to an idiot farmer from the south than be kidnapped for a ransom they could not pay, to become a plaything for the Boxers or meet a miserable death in the hands of triad kidnappers.

  Pai-Ling was taller in the way of northern women, more beautiful than the three wives who had serviced Yik-Munn’s long and arduous life but had become fat, and tiresome in his bed. She was proud, and her eyes were filled with unexpected dignity. Yik-Munn remembered well when she was first brought before him in the great reception hall of the Ling compound.

  As he sat in his well-polished shoes and his best suit of bold check cloth, custom-made made for him in the Western style by a master tailor in Canton, she had glanced at his scanty hair, freshly trimmed and plastered with sweet-smelling pomade, without enthusiasm. His long, high-cheek-boned face shaved, patted, and pampered, even his large ears had been thoroughly reamed until they glowed. Their fleshy lobes were one of his finest features, said by the priests to be a sign of great wisdom, like those of the lord Buddha himself.

  That all such careful preparation did not hide the deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks of an opium eater did not bother him. To afford the tears of the poppy whenever he wished was a sign of affluence among the farmers of Kwangtung Province. And to own such a suit, specially made to fit him alone and worn only by the big-city taipan, was proof that he was also a respected spice merchant.

  Neither did the hostile look in her eyes discourage him. His only hesitation had been to learn that she had taught herself to read and write. This was unheard of along the banks of the Pearl and its many tributaries, at least among the families who had turned the fertile soils for many generations.

  They were Hakka, the peasant clans of the south who knew of nothing but the moon’s rich harvests and the blessings of the Tu-Ti—the earth gods—who watch over hardworking families with a benevolent eye. When she was not too heavy with child, a woman’s purpose was to plant and follow the plow, to harvest and grind, thresh and bale. Had not Number-One Wife continued to work on the rice terraces almost to the moment of birth after her third time—stopping only long enough to give him a healthy son, rest for the remainder of that day, and have the buffalo yoked to resume plowing as the sun rose the following morning?

  Number Two had once made his heart trip like a boy’s with the appetite of a whore in the bedroom … but she was of no other use and had a whining voice that sawed its way into his soul. True, Number Three could read and write, and her fingertips were fast and light as a cricket as they tripped the beads of the abacus … but only to keep tally in the godown. One woman with brains was more than enough under Yik-Munn’s roof. An educated female would bring nothing but trouble to any clan.

  Wives as sturdy and enduring as One and Two were worthy of their rice and of great value to a struggling farmer. Times were different now. The Great Pine spice farm had prospered; his elder sons were studying in the best schools, one of them running his own restaurant on the Golden Hill of Hong Kong. The younger ones still worked the spice fields, and his grandsons were already able to plant rice and gather a harvest.

  So Pai-Ling was a plaything—perhaps to bear him more sons, but he expected nothing more of her and
overlooked the unsettling discovery that she could not only read and write but was said to have studied the many faces of the moon and understood the passage of the star gods. This was the forbidden domain of priests and fortune-tellers; a girl child who sought such knowledge could be considered of unsound mind, liable to become rebellious and a danger to those around her. Still, the cost of Pai-Ling’s education had been borne by her family, and it was they who had allowed her to consult mischievous imps and pray to mysterious gods.

  Yik-Munn had earned a ripe young concubine with a spirit yet to be tamed, who would nourish him with her virgin body and give him great face. He would soon beat the foolishness out of her and change the insolent light in her eyes to one of gratitude and respect; he would draw upon her rebellious sap to nourish his spirit and receive her pure essence like dew from an open flower.

  That she had looked at him without fear but with clear distaste, and even seemed to flash a warning, had caused his blood to surge. He had run a bony finger around the stiff collar caught too tightly by a brightly colored tie. His large and splendid teeth displayed themselves in an approving smile. Defiance in one so young gave him a thrill that cast all other thoughts aside; she would be small and tight as a mouse’s ear. He would not demand love or affection, or even the friendship of a fond companion; had he not once received such futile sentiments in abundance from wives One, Two, and Three?

  He knew what pleased him most in the bedroom, and expected such service from Pai-Ling: the incomparable feeling of ownership and absolute, unquestionable power. In addition, his elder sister, who had once been a part of Shanghai society and had maintained the best of connections, had recommended this fine family. This, she had assured him, was where he would find a suitable concubine—a summer peach to bring endless spring in his autumn years.

  Now that the Ling family’s fortunes had crumbled along with those of many other wealthy Shanghai families, this was the time to do business, when they were eager to escape and in no position to bargain. That the girl had been sired by the master of the house and a white Russian mistress of uncertain heritage had been considered in the price and otherwise not spoken of. Not only did she promise new adventures in the bedroom and have hips to bear more sons, but most precious of all were what he saw when she was presented for his consideration: her tiny lotus feet, rare these days.

  So dainty were her crippled toes, bent until they touched her heel—the deformity of elegance sheathed so exquisitely in embroidered silk—that he could cradle them in the palm of his rough farmer’s hand and fondle them like a lovely finger jade. This girl was indeed qian-jin—to be compared to a thousand pieces of gold. As with all things costly on Great Pine Farm, the money to pay the asking price had come from the brimming coffers of Elder Sister.

  That his wives would not welcome another as young and beautiful as Pai-Ling was certain. They had worked hard to attain power in the House of Munn, to play mah-jongg in the village and enjoy the lavish attentions of the beauty parlor whenever they wished.

  Yik-Munn had returned to Great Pine Farm with his proud and willful concubine, younger than his youngest son, dressed in silks of red and gold, carried over the muddy fields in a palanquin. This had given him great face among his neighbors. When she tottered behind him on his frequent visits to the temple, the tilt of her spine and sway of her behind made him the envy of friends and enemies alike. Yes, Yik-Munn had thought, Pai-Ling is well worth the money.

  That was almost a year ago. She had been a problem to him from the start, biting him as savagely as a stray dog on the first night because, she yelled, he was too hasty, too big, and too clumsy for her. On his command, One had gagged her, and Two and Three were told to hold her wrists and ankles while he struck her nearly senseless and planted his seed so violently, her squalling roused the doves from the barn roof.

  Worse, the commotion had disturbed Elder Sister, known to the household as Goo-Mah (Great-Aunt), who hammered for quiet with her heavy blackwood stick.

  Yik-Munn was afraid of his sister, who lived on and on and had stopped counting the years while she held tightly to the family purse strings. Goo-Mah also possessed lotus feet, no bigger than a child’s, but could no longer stand or walk and had not done so for a thousand moons. The feet had rotted so much, their stink escaped her tightly closed door.

  Hidden away in upstairs rooms of her own, unable to leave her bed, she was surrounded by the furnishings of a prosperous younger life. On a shelf, proudly arranged side by side like rare and precious toys in the prettiest of colors, stood the tiny silken slippers that once encased her feet so sublimely. She was senile, toothless, and half deaf, her lifeless stumps soaking always in a bowl of steaming herbs to ease her agony, her malignant spirit prowling the house like a phantom.

  Goo-Mah no longer feared death or the judgment of gods that might await her; she prayed to be taken every day. Life had become so bleak, her only remaining pleasure was to be as disagreeable as possible to those around her. She could not demand more attention or command more obedience in the house of her brother if she were the great Dowager Empress Tzu-Hsi, who was renowned for her arrogance and cruelty.

  Reduced as her life had become, her pride had grown all the greater. Did she not own this farm that had made them wealthy, and the house where they lived with such comfort and security? In truth, her worthless brother would have starved, and his greedy wives with him, if it were not for the endless generosity of the great Goo-Mah.

  Was she not, until now, the only one in this family who had feet so splendid they had been glorified by the lotus slipper, stroked like a kitten by a loving husband who showered her with gold? She could have been a courtesan with such delicate feet, while those around her had monstrous extremities fit only to paddle in mud.

  Goo-Mah’s face was wrinkled as a preserved plum, pale as parchment, and her eyes were filmed by the milky blue of cataracts. To express her dignity and remind visitors of her great importance, she wore the jade and ivory trinkets collected throughout her life—rings on every withered finger, bony wrists laden with bracelets, her scraggy neck hidden by necklaces of gold, silver, and precious stones. Crowning this treasury of memories, skewering her crooked wig, was an array of combs and dangling decorations.

  She trusted no one, least of all her good-for-nothing brother. She did not like him, she did not respect him, and she did not trust him. So sure was she that he would not spend enough on the coffin that would carry her to the glittering mansion of her ancestors, she had had one crafted to her grandest expectations, supervising every detail from her bedside. Hewn from the ebony heart of a persimmon tree, it was sheathed in copper, sound as the keel of an emperor’s junk, every inch inscribed with sacred talismans to ward off all manners of evil that might waylay her ascent into heaven.

  Lined by layers of the finest silk, with hidden pockets for her most valuable treasures, it was kept in the room adjoining her bedchamber, covered by a black silk cloth and surrounded by porcelain images of the appropriate gods. Far too large to be taken through the door and down the stairs no matter how many strong men were enlisted, a crane would need to be used and the window demolished to move her remains to the family cemetery beneath the great pine. It was a comfort to her to know that she would have the very shortest of distances to travel from this life to the next, but would command attention and respect to the very last instant, causing as much trouble as possible even after her death.

  Beneath her pillow, in a small, flat box, resided the most important riches to be taken with her into the afterlife: a set of jade plugs fashioned to close each of her nine orifices so that any roving spirit in search of a home might not find a way to enter her corpse. Exquisite to look upon and carved from only the most expensive stone, they differed in shape and color, from duck-bone white and mutton-fat yellow to rose madder, kingfisher blue, and date-skin brown. The matched pair that would close her eyes forever had the sheen of chestnuts and were in the shape of fish, who with eyes eternally open would be for
ever watchful. The most splendid piece would be placed in her mouth to hold her tongue. It was the color of morning dew on a chrysanthemum and shaped like a cicada, a creature that, through its long periods underground in the larval stage, symbolized a resurrection of the spirit and eternal spring.

  Great-Aunt had railed long and loud when told that the new concubine defied her brother’s wishes, demanding she be flayed within an inch of her life and denied all food and privilege until she showed proper respect and humility to those who sheltered her and filled her bowl. Did this ill-bred bitch not know how fortunate she was to be chosen to cross the door of this most honorable clan? Her brother, worthless fool that he may be, was the oldest male in her family and deserved respect. Any who insulted him, insulted her, and this she would not tolerate.

  So rebellious was Pai-Ling, Goo-Mah declared to her troubled brother, that the women of the household had concluded that she was possessed by a demon. Where else would such defiance come from in so worthy a household as the House of Munn?

  In the kitchen, Number One plotted against the impudent Shanghai bitch, convincing Two and Three of the danger. They wished her gone, along with her precious feet; there was no room for one so young in a house already filled with honorable and deserving women. They wanted no more sons to share the family wealth, nor anyone beneath their roof who could awaken their husband’s passions. The mistresses he bothered in the village were well known to them, and welcome to keep him occupied as long and as often as they could … but a concubine under the same roof was a danger to them all.

  If young enough, a clever concubine was capable of grasping power from those who had earned it—those who had served the master of the house in harder times and borne his sons. The women had thought of poison, and secretly paid good money for the deadliest of mushrooms—and more for the black magician’s talismans—to see her cursed. But the girl from Shanghai had proved fruitful and was quickly with child before the forces of darkness could find a way to be rid of her.