House of Kwa Read online

  ‘Come,’ Ying Kam says to Lotus Flower, his nickname for her. ‘Come with me now.’

  The laughter in her eyes drains away as she realises he is not kidding.

  Lotus Flower is Great-Grandfather’s fourth wife and has not yet blessed him with children. She came from a village in the Eastern Coastal Zhejiang Province when she was fourteen, and now she is fifteen there are suspicions she is barren. As if to remind her of this shame, a baby cries on the other side of the compound.

  ‘Come,’ Ying Kam insists. ‘Come now.’

  He has no love for Lotus Flower but a companion will provide the necessary reassurance to set aside the violent inner tussle over what he is about to do.

  Great-Grandfather roars with laughter in the next room as Ying Kam prepares to abscond with Fourth Mother and the leather-bound book that holds the key to their future. It is November but the brittle sunset air will not deter him. The French navy has recently attacked Foochow on China’s coast, bolstering numbers heading south, and while war and starvation are the common reason for migration – not thwarted betrothal – the Yellow Earth Dragon, Ying Kam, is resolute. The Ottoman Empire blocked trade along the Silk Road four centuries ago but Kwa has used alternate silk routes by land and sea ever since. And there is no better port for trade or travel overseas, than Swatow.

  ‘I will pay you well,’ Ying Kam tells his favourite driver. ‘You will be my second-in-command. What is there for you here? A life of endlessly pulling the rich in rickshaws – with a horse one day, if the gods bestow mercy?’

  Lotus Flower’s face pokes around Ying Kam’s shoulder as he crouches beside the straw mattress of Storm Boy, his nickname for the driver – although driver barely describes the manpower Storm Boy must harness to run along cobblestones and dirt with a carriage at his back, or to ride the family’s bicycle-drawn shaw on his luckier days. Storm Boy has been Ying Kam’s confidant since he was young. They have grown up together, the driver little more than three years Ying Kam’s senior.

  Storm Boy’s mattress lies on the soil floor of the rickshaw stable. As Ying Kam shakes him awake, speaking low and soft, it dawns on Storm Boy this could indeed be his chance for emancipation. Swatow is the Western name for Shantou on Guangdong’s east coast, and Storm Boy has heard of many thousands of Chinese establishing great fortune there.

  The bronze serpent door-knocker whispers adventure, as the stone lions stand alert at the gate. Terracotta roof dragons exchange hopeful glances. The three fugitives may yet escape, before they are killed.

  When the driver agrees, there is nothing more that needs to be said between friends.

  Ying Kam and Lotus Flower climb into the rickshaw, and Storm Boy sweeps them off towards the outside world. Great-Grandfather’s laughter fades as they wheel past the stone lions and a sleeping guard at his post. No one sees First Mother watching from her window or witnesses her tears.

  My grandfather Ying Kam creates distance from his beginnings, propelling himself closer to a new life. House of Kwa splinters. Click-click-click go the rickshaw wheels. A family diaspora catches a north wind. Over cobblestones and dirt, steep terrain and wooded bush, the rickshaw rides. Whoosh, the dragon’s tail. Snap, the branch of a tree. Tap, grind, a claw sharpening on teeth.

  RICKSHAW AND GOLD

  YING KAM AND LOTUS FLOWER HAVE NEVER BEEN BEYOND the Beijing principality before, and now they are as far down the map as Guangdong province. When Ying Kam pats his pocket, he’s comforted by the shape of the black book. The long journey has been arduous, with the travellers fearful of wolves and plagued by bandits, giving them no choice but to cross hungry palms with silver bullion for smooth passage to the mouth of the powerful Han River, and Swatow.

  Lotus Flower turns to Ying Kam in the rickshaw. ‘How much further?’

  Storm Boy pedals through yet another bustling town, dodging swarms of bicycles carting textiles in rolls alongside bundles that shroud cases of opium. Opium to relieve a peasant’s long day slaving for landowners, as well as for an elite bothered by the stresses of managing peasants. Opium for children and wives. Opium for teachers, officials and holy men. It is the shame of a greatly artistic and deeply spiritual people now living in a country sedated.

  Ying Kam fixes his eyes on Lotus Flower.

  ‘How much further?’ she repeats. This is by far the greatest distance any of the trio has ever ventured, except in Ying Kam’s dreams where he flies on the backs of dragons to far kingdoms, and then all of a sudden he is the dragon, breathing fire and brimstone on villages below, more like the stories he has heard of Western dragons on the attack. Then he is a boy again, steering a winged reptile home, away from the burning rooftops, and he cannot decide who he prefers to be.

  ‘It can’t be far now.’ Ying Kam squeezes Lotus Flower’s hand.

  The three pass through tropical forests of bats and dragonfly swarms. A butterfly alights on Ying Kam’s shoulder. ‘Oh look.’ Lotus Flower reaches out to touch its wing and it flies away. This is the place where tigers once roamed. Past mountain and bamboo grove they have glimpses of the South China Sea, and finally the runaways have arrived in Swatow. Their rickshaw ambles along streets of two- and four-storey neoclassic-inspired Qilou architecture forming shaded footpath corridors and balconies with French windows. They can go no further south now that their silver bullion has washed away down cracks in the floors of rented rooms and into the pockets of bandits.

  Storm Boy is skin and bone, and although Ying Kam feeds him and Lotus Flower dresses his wounds and massages his legs, his soul is in his eyes, pleading. No one could be more relieved than the skeletal rickshaw driver to arrive in Swatow and hear the words, ‘We are here.’

  Ying Kam and Storm Boy unload a chest from the floor of the carriage. It’s bereft of coins yet laden with valuable currency, and Ying Kam sets about finding buyers for these rare silks, which will attract great intrigue here in Swatow where pigments differ from those in the more Imperial prefectures. Within each province, the design of cloths and garments is subtly nuanced to recognise the most popular styles of local noble craftsmen.

  As Lotus Flower wanders the fish market, the long flowing robe of her Hanfu gown, designed after the style of the ancient Han people predating the Qing Dynasty, reveals her foreign status in the art of belting at the waist and the crossover of scarves at her bodice. But something else instantly gives her away as an outsider: her lilting dialect. Although the Kwas have learned both their native Mandarin as well as some Cantonese, there are many obvious differences. Communication between speakers of the two languages is said to be ji tong ya jiang, like a chicken talking to a duck.

  Ying Kam takes the black book from his pocket, sending a shot of excitement through his body. The contacts in the book are a gift from heaven, sure to make moving the priceless fabric easy. A collaborator surfaces within the hour, then another and another, until Ying Kam assembles a team.

  Soon he will have a fully fledged trading operation as he paves his way into networks of wolves. Ying Kam is a wolf of sorts himself, a merchant by blood. And he knows the richest trade routes well from sitting beside Great-Grandfather, hearing the stories and tracing his finger along expansive maps: ‘By the same path as silk, goes opium.’ China’s new silk routes move opium, silk, gold, tea and spices abroad and Ying Kam is about to learn the way of Swatow’s own great sea port to the West. He and Lotus Flower watch the sun bounce on the water. The ancient fisher folk here would never have dreamed of the cargo heaving in and out on the sea today, where their narrow boats once moored with nets full of large-mouth bass. Ying Kam buys some fish rice brine and fish balls, and hands Lotus Flower a pair of chopsticks.

  A room for the night evolves into a Swatow house for rent. Ying Kam is seventeen now, the long journey having aged him in more ways than one, and as Lotus Flower is fifteen, the couple decide it is high time they wed. The ceremony is low-key with no betrothal letters, gifts or dowry, and no wedding party or guests visiting their home. They are married in a local t
emple by a shaman who wonders if such a union should take place before the gods without the extended family present, but he takes their silver and sets aside his concern. For Ying Kam and Lotus Flower, having no family or friends in the district means no need for traditions such as disinviting people born in the Year of the Tiger to avoid bad luck or serving tea to elders. However, there is one ancient tradition for good fortune that Lotus Flower is loath to disregard: the practice of crying.

  The louder a bride cries on her wedding day the better the luck, so Lotus Flower wails from dawn, pinching herself to make the tears come harder, stabbing needles into her thighs to bring them faster. She conjures such miserable thoughts that the sobs pour out and the luck, presumably, pours in. Then, wiping her face and drying her eyes, Lotus Flower pulls down an ornate lace veil of scarlet and gold to hide her blotchy, swollen complexion, and calls to Ying Kam, who has been waiting in the tiny front courtyard for her to finish. ‘We may be late for our own ceremony,’ his bride scolds, still sniffing after the hours-long assault on her sinuses. ‘Hurry, Ying Kam, where is Storm Boy?’ she snaps, and almost trips on her shimmering embroidered gown, deliberately designed with no pockets so she will not be able to steal her father-in-law’s luck or wealth. Great-Grandfather is technically her first husband, but no matter, tradition is tradition.

  As Ying Kam’s enduring servant, friend and business manager – a recent promotion – Storm Boy is the closest person to witness the nuptials. After the service the newlyweds each cut a lock of their hair, tie them together in a knot, and slip it into a silk bag to demonstrate oneness of flesh and blood, an earthly and heavenly connection that can never be broken.

  Once they have completed all the religious and traditional obligations possible, it is time for the most important objective of any good Chinese marriage: to beget heirs and therefore a continuation of this new strand of Kwa.

  Ying Kam and Lotus Flower build an altar to worship their ancestors and pray to the gods for a child. The sun rises and sets, a dragon circles and withdraws, but no baby comes. Prosperity arrives in silver bullion for the trading of silk, yet still no offspring. Another Kwa compound rises from the dust, a new House of Kwa. It is the largest residence in the village, with half the rooms and halls of Ying Kam’s Beijing home but not even a small fraction of its life. The new courtyard remains bereft of infant wails, toddler stumbles and busy household bustle.

  News of the barren couple travels fast throughout the local community, down lanes, through marketplaces, over the hills and into villages. Lotus Flower’s sorrow-stricken face and flat belly betray her, sending an open invitation to parents of would-be brides to line up and impatiently wait in the wings. Whenever Ying Kam passes by, eager mothers and fathers wring their hands and straighten Hanfu outfits on teenage daughters. The parents wrench on headpieces and slap their girls’ tender faces to encourage an appearance of fertility.

  TINY FEET AND MUDFISH

  LOTUS FLOWER FOLLOWS A THREAD OF GOSSIP INTO MARKET and out again to arrive at the door of another of the district’s revered shamans, Reputable Wu Master, an unparalleled aficionado, according to the whispers, of ancient folklore to predict and evoke luck. Lotus Flower tells him she is hoping for a child, and he agrees to visit the Kwa compound. She is only weeks shy of turning twenty-three, and Ying Kam is now twenty five.

  The couple waits with silver at the ready for the shaman’s arrival. Ying Kam is pacing when Reputable Wu Master enters with a theatrical upward motion of his hand, his sleeves fanning out and rippling with all the exaggeration of Chinese theatre. His palm assumes a pose of refusal, indicating money is of no importance, but the pair insists on paying despite his humility – in fact, it’s required that they do. The shaman shakes his head in pity at the young lovers’ simple earthly ways and his robe swallows their silver.

  A Buddhist holy monk is soon to arrive, and with Reputable Wu Master’s elaborate performance pushing things past schedule, Ying Kam is keen to move proceedings along. He thrusts out an empty palm for the shaman to read, and Lotus Flower follows suit. ‘Why have we borne no fruit?’ she asks and quickly adds, ‘Oh, one of wisdom.’

  The shaman straightens his back. He enjoys the adulation and wishes it would continue, but as Ying Kam seems hurried, it is with disappointment, Reputable Wu Master skips his usual chant and dance and accelerates his routine by accepting the offered palms. He shakes his head and furrows his brow, repeating these actions until Ying Kam says impatiently, ‘What is it?’

  The shaman looks grave, shaking and furrowing one last time for effect. ‘No child will be born to this house.’

  There is a stunned silence. Ying Kam and Lotus Flower drain of colour, grief-stricken.

  Holy Monk is waiting outside, tapping his foot. When Reputable Wu Master leaves, he slips a coin into Holy Monk’s open palm as they exchange a passing greeting.

  ‘No child will be born to this house,’ Holy Monk also predicts. Ying Kam and Lotus Flower can hardly bear it, for they are certain the core of existence is to bring about children. ‘But for a price.’ Holy Monk looks grave and shifts his eyes from side to side to demonstrate the degree of confidence he is about to impart. ‘Yes, for a price I will get you your child.’

  Ying Kam instantly regrets his impatient, ignorant demands that he be married off young. ‘Father was right about almanacs and superstition.’ The young man hears Great-Grandfather’s voice: The holy men foretell truth. Listen and heed their warnings. The image of his father evaporates, leaving a heightened sense of determination in Ying Kam. He resolves, then and there, to take control of Kwa destiny and dynasty.

  So, on the advice of Holy Monk, Ying Kam buys a baby boy. The twenty-third generation Kwa firstborn son is adopted. The house is blessed and there is much celebration, with Holy Monk and Reputable Wu Master invited to enjoy a feast in honour of the new arrival. As they gorge on pork and dumplings, they forget to tell Ying Kam what will happen next: he will be blessed with thirty-one more children.

  As the first of these babies arrives, the two wise men, replete from many banquets around town, have an explanation for the deviation from their prediction. ‘The good stewardship you have displayed with your adopted son has caused the gods to bless you for your faith.’ A thirty-one child blessing.

  Ying Kam and Lotus Flower didn’t see the impoverished home their adopted son came from – not the bed of straw in the lean-to dwelling, or the birth mother scrounging for scraps to feed her toddler. They know nothing of her heart shredded with grief from watching her husband die, aged twenty, from a lung complaint she will never know the name of. The most basic treatment was beyond her financial reach.

  By comparison, Ying Kam and Lotus Flower are millionaires. They name their baby Tak Wai. No one knows what his birth mother called him before he was taken from her in exchange for a few coins.

  The year Tak Wai turns three, Year of the Water Snake, 1894, Ying Kam hits his professional stride, business swells to proportions worthy of red lanterns all year round, and his seed finally takes root.

  To the couple’s surprise Lotus Flower bears Ying Kam a son. Two years later – twin girls, although one doesn’t survive the winter, dying of an ailment of no name and probably the will of demon gods. At the turn of the century, Lotus Flower is expecting another child and although there are concubines at his beck and call, Ying Kam decides to take another bride to further the Kwa lineage. She is fourteen, and his nickname for her is Happy Shadow. She bows low as she enters the compound, her parents following cautiously while also bowing low out of respect for the grand master Ying Kam must be. After all, he has his own compound with a courtyard and koi pond, and even his own drivers.

  ‘He must be a rich man indeed,’ they told their daughter when she begged them not to send her away. ‘Be grateful the matchmaker has found you a good husband.’ Her mother lifted a silk cloth from the dowry chest Ying Kam had sent and was so mesmerised by its shine, she seemed not to notice her daughter was there. At that moment, a sliver o
f the child bride’s heart turned to stone.

  Now the family has arrived from a village, far beyond the Swatow border, with what the parents insist to Ying Kam is a modest gift – their daughter – in return for his most gracious generosity. After a ceremony of tea and some festivities, Ying Kam’s new in-laws, whom the Kwa family will likely never see again, bid a tearful Happy Shadow goodbye.

  With now two wives, Ying Kam works his silk trade and sets his sights on Hong Kong, 175 miles away and two years in under British rule. He has the idea of opening a shop there to increase visibility for international customers, so he travels to the territory frequently to investigate, leaving his family behind for weeks on end.

  Lotus Flower is Number One Wife, but rather than feeling empowered by her upper-status role, she is irritated at having competition. She becomes a snapdragon – with the slightest squeeze, her pretty jaws close. She campaigns vigilantly to protect her sovereignty and reminds all in the compound and village of her superiority, in every way, to Happy Shadow. ‘I am first and I am senior. Am I not more beautiful, more charming and pleasing than Second Wife?’ No one can deny Lotus Flower’s attractive qualities; however, that she has been surpassed in all of them by the younger girl, no one dares say to her face.

  In her first marriage Lotus Flower was an excellent student, watching and learning from the older wives as she trained to serve Great-Grandfather. She was beaten and laughed at, consoled and beaten again. Now she is high in rank she brings lessons from the old family compound to the new. But the shiny serpent door-knocker and freshly carved lions know she will do well to hide her jealousy, as such vanity will surely attract a beating from Ying Kam when he returns this time. Her abuse must be considered and cunning. Ruo rou qiang shi. The weak are prey to the strong, she thinks. Lotus Flower, who did not come down in the last rainfall, realises that Happy Shadow – having also been exiled from her family to endure a life of broken feet and broken dreams – may be prone to her own ideas.