Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [67]
“Mother Cheung Tai, I don’t want to go to that family.” Her soft voice came through the mantle of darkness.
“Why? You usually get on with Auntie Mak, and Ah-Fat is certainly good to you. Is it the scar that bothers you?”
Six Fingers said nothing. There was a heavy silence, thick as a blob of lumpy ink. After a long pause, it dissolved a little and a trembling voice floated out:
“They’re all good people.”
Auntie Cheung Tai heaved a sigh. “Then how can you not agree, you silly girl?”
“Mother Cheung Tai, I … I won’t be a junior wife.”
The older woman sighed. “Six Fingers, you were eighteen this New Year. At that age, a girl’s more than ripe for marriage. You’ll end up an old maid if you don’t. Last year you could have married that man, and been his first wife too. But you refused, and I was with you there. He really wasn’t right for you. But Ah-Fat’s exactly the kind of man you need. It’s just your fate to be a junior wife. If you won’t accept that, you’ll end up getting old with me, won’t you?”
Six Fingers suddenly burst out of the darkness, bent over as if she had a heavy bundle of faggots on her back. She was panting as she said:
“I’m not going to be a junior wife, Mother Cheung Tai.”
The older woman’s patience was wearing thin and seemed as if it might break at any moment.
“If you miss out on this one, Six Fingers,” she said, “where do you think you’ll find another man that doesn’t care about your six fingers? Of course everyone wants to be a senior wife. It’s just not going to happen to you. You should give thanks to the Buddha that this family has sent this many betrothal gifts to someone who’s going to be a junior wife.”
Six Fingers had something heavy at her waist which she took out. She gripped it in her hand so hard that she seemed to be trying to squeeze water from it. It gave her courage and her words were brusque:
“I’m not going to be a junior wife, Mother Cheung Tai.”
Auntie Cheung Tai had her back to Six Fingers and was tidying up the sewing things. Her reply was just as brusque.
“This time it’s not up to you. I’ve already given our reply to Third Granny. The twenty-fifth day of this month is propitious. The gifts are all arranged.”
Six Fingers did not answer. Auntie Cheung Tai heard a dull thud, and looked around to see Six Fingers on the floor. Something dark red oozed over the back of her hand and blossomed wetly on her jacket front. The girl must have spilt the red ink she used in her paintings, Auntie Cheung Tai thought. Then she saw that a stub of a finger had fallen on the floor and lay shrivelled and slug-like in a sea of blood.
Six Fingers had used the pigs’ fodder knife to chop off her sixth finger.
Six Fingers hovered between life and death for three days. The village herbalist came, looked at the wound and took her pulse. His verdict was that the knife blade was contaminated and she had blood poisoning. He did not hold out much hope for her recovery.
When the news reached the Fongs, Ah-Fat was busy practising his calligraphy, copying out a famous poem by a Southern Song dynasty poet. He had chosen the best and most absorbent paper and wrote rapidly, in a free, cursive style. When he heard the matchmaker talking to his mother, his writing hand froze in mid-air and a blob of black ink fell from the wolf-hair brush, spoiling the paper.
When Ah-Fat emerged, the matchmaker had gone. A hen in the yard had just laid an egg and was flapping and clucking around Mrs. Mak hoping for some grains of rice as a reward. Ah-Fat threw a stone at it. There was pandemonium as squawking hens took refuge on the fence, filling the yard with a flurry of wings. Mrs. Mak brushed off a chicken feather which had stuck to her face. “The pot of sticky rice is still hot,” she said. “Shall I get Ah-Choi to bring you some?”
Ah-Fat did not answer. Although his mother could not see him, she could tell his face had grown as dark as a thundercloud. His heavy silences were more