I did as she said, placing my lips close to the conch and speaking in a low tone. The shell had been polished so thoroughly it was almost transparent. My voice swelled inside it, creating little eddies of sound. I heard a returning whisper, the sound of the sea behind it, wave after wave coming towards me. The shell in my hand revolved like a planet, and I knew it was packed with stories. I looked up at Chun Chi and grinned with sheer happiness.
She smiled too, a sweet smile I had never seen on her before. It faded in an instant, but I stored it in my memory. No one can imagine how moved I was, as if a lifetime's worth of good fortune had poured over me just then. I could not possess any more, I would never be so satisfied.
7
If it wasn't for Master Zhong, I would never have known Chun Chi's secret.
Master Zhong is the only visitor I remember us ever receiving. He always arrived on still and quiet evenings, like a shower of rain.
His job was to polish seashells for Chun Chi. He came to deliver the prepared shells, and take away a chest of new ones. Some of the shells still had remnants of little animals in them, and would rot if not properly cleaned. These needed to be soaked in cold water, then gently heated in a metal pot; while still hot, the flesh was winkled out with needles and small blades, the shells left to dry in the sun. This was the simplest part of the process. Many of them were infested with coral worms or kelp, and had to be scrubbed with a horsehair brush, any lingering specks chipped away with a little awl. Such fine work required both patience and great skill, and no one could have done it except Master Zhong.
Master Zhong came once a month, as regular as a lady's time. I knew he was no common craftsman (if what he did counted as a craft). He had a razor-sharp gaze, meagre lips, and fingers as thin as twigs. His body was riddled with a foul, salty smell, as if he had just wandered in from the sea.
He was about the same age as Chun Chi, with clear, almost feminine features. Even at his age he had no facial hair or wrinkles, which made his face seem especially clean. He favoured long satin robes in dark green or black, finely made with embroidery on every fold. If I had seen him in the street, I would surely have taken him for some great personage, yet he abased himself before Chun Chi. Auntie Lan said (of course, this was just rumour) that Chun Chi's father had been an important minister at the imperial court. I guessed that Master Zhong must have been a servant at their household — nothing else could explain why someone of his age would endure Chun Chi's tantrums with such equanimity, why he was willing to undertake these dull tasks for her.
Master Zhong was very fond of me, although we hardly spoke. His joy at seeing me was palpable. He patted me, calling me with a suddenly hoarse voice, "Xiao Xing, Xiao Xing."
The pity of it is, at the time, I misunderstood his affection for me as an extension of his feelings for Chun Chi, as if he would have loved a crow as long as it were under her roof. I stayed aloof, avoiding his hands, coldly informing him that Chun Chi was in her room or out at sea. He didn't seem to mind the cold shoulder. Once, he brought me a present, a bunch of mandala flowers. "Put them in a vase by your bed. Maybe they'll change your dreams," he advised.
The flowers were crimson, drooping like bells, very fragrant. I had no vase, so I placed them in a teacup. When Chun Chi smelled the mandala, she became furious. Following the scent, she found them and shattered the cup on the ground.
After this incident, I hated Master Zhong in earnest for some time. He must have known Chun Chi disliked mandala flowers, and still gave me a bunch so I would anger her.
It was only many years later that I understood what he meant by "maybe they'll change your dreams."
Another time, I tried placing mandala flowers in a vase by my bed, like he said, but had no dreams at all.
8
Chun Chi never allowed Master Zhong into the house. He was forced to stand in the courtyard, like an animal that had blundered in by mistake. I heard him standing lonely by the trellis, coughing.
I remember very clearly the time he arrived on a wet summer day. It was raining hard enough to wash a person away. As always, Chun Chi refused him entry, and so he stood outside, utterly drenched. I couldn't make out his face, but still remember vividly his pained, resigned appearance. As I watched him disappear into a foggy squall of rain, my resentment against him momentarily vanished. He must once have been a good-looking man, even if he was no longer young, and the beginnings of a hump made his dark green robes swell like a mottled tortoise shell, as if bowed under the burden of love he had carried all these years.
After he had gone, Chun Chi stayed in her room for several days. I stayed outside her door with my eyes shut, straining for the slightest movement from within.
When she finally came out, I was asleep against the wall opposite her door. "Xiao Xing," she called. My eyes still shut, in the last instant before drifting free of my dream, I saw her walking towards me and reaching out to pat my head with infinite gentleness, as if I were one of her seashells.
Still half asleep, I stared at her. She had grown thin, her eye sockets dark. Her hair was brushed over her left shoulder, speckled with rainwater. (She must have been out in the garden — did she miss the man who had so recently left in silence?) Licking my lips, I realised how thirsty I was.
"Go eat your dinner." Even spoken softly, this was an order.
She turned back to her room. I found my voice before she could close her door. "What can I do to make you happy?" As I clambered up from the floor, I felt my bones growing, faster than bamboo.
"Nothing."
