I owe Hua Hua more than I'll ever be able to pay, but I have come to think that this is the way of the world —everyone owed and owing, a circle of obligation linking us head to tail, a kind of fairness.
The next morning, Chun Chi asked me if Master Zhong had delivered the shells. I held up the sack for her to dip her hands into; seeming satisfied, she took them back to her room. I waited outside, on a knife's edge — would she notice any difference? Pressed against the door, I remembered Master Zhong's words: when the silence is deepest, Chun Chi is running her fingers over the shells, bringing forth a pleasing tone. I had heard this before, but thought I'd imagined it. Now, it was clear — a thin noise, coming in fits and starts.
Suddenly, Chun Chi pushed the door open. Sensing my presence, she snapped, "Summon Master Zhong. I have words to say to him."
"Master Zhong became ill and died a month ago," I calmly replied.
A spasm passed through her whole body. "Were you there at the end?"
"Yes, I went to see him."
"Did he say anything to you?" She was picking her words with great care.
"Very little. He taught me to clean and polish the shells, so I could take over his work." This wasn't the whole truth, but I didn't think he'd want Chun Chi to know he'd given away her secret.
"Then these shells were polished by you?"
"Yes. I know I haven't done them well, but I'm working hard. I'll get better."
A pause. "I'm tired now. I'm going back inside." Master Zhong's departure seemed to have robbed her of all her energy.
"There's just one more thing… the girl who was here yesterday. Master Zhong asked me to take care of her. Can she stay?"
Chun Chi nodded.
It had been a dry summer. Even the day Master Zhong died, although overcast, yielded not a drop of rain. The humidity made everything heavy and still — until Chun Chi's return seemed to release the dead, and a storm began in earnest.
I found Chun Chi in the long corridor. She had brought a chair out to sit under the eaves, where the gusty rain found her easily. Her chrysanthemum silk robes were soaked. Hearing my footsteps, she shivered. She looked pale and helpless, as fragile as pear blossoms battered by the rain. The sight brought tears to my eyes.
I wanted to speak, help her out of her wet clothes, but something stopped me. I knew now what she wanted. I had to love her as a man, yes, and I knew how to do it.
A pair of reproachful eyes glared from the far corner of the courtyard. I could feel the coolness emanating from them, even through the sheets of rain. When Chun Chi finally went back indoors, I ventured into the back garden and found Hua Hua where the grass was deepest, huddled in rainwater. I tried to help her up but she pushed me away.
Chun Chi said she could stay, I told her. She didn't express any joy, but went back to her work in the kitchen as if everything was normal. She bore a grudge against Chun Chi from that time on. Even as she had to maintain an outward appearance of humility and servitude, Hua Hua was accumulating resentments the way other girls acquire items for their trousseau.
No woman was more sensitive than Chun Chi. Even without being able to see, she could sense the waves of enmity from Hua Hua. My last days with Chun Chi were spent in this manner, caught between two warring women.
15
In the years after that, Hua Hua noticed that I was becoming like Chun Chi: obsessed with seashells, indifferent to my surroundings, cold towards other people.
I began shutting myself in my room, the doors and windows sealed to keep out even a chink of light. Picking up a polished shell, I closed my eyes and slowly ran my fingers over it. This was a kind of reading that I could only accomplish in utter silence. It took me a long time to learn the necessary detachment and quiet. The slightest sound elsewhere in the house could distract me. I found myself thinking: is Chun Chi still in her room? Has she gone on another journey?
My heart calmed down over time. Other sounds stopped entering my consciousness; I was enveloped in a solitary slab of silence. The seashells were an opening to another world. The first time I heard a brief melody emerging from the shell in my hands, I let out a cry of joy. Perhaps at that very moment, Hua Hua paused in her work to listen. Would she understand my excitement? If not for the distance that had grown between us, I would surely have shared this with her.
It had been five years, and Chun Chi remained unable to find the secret she sought amongst the shells. She began going to sea more often. The life of an itinerant song-girl finally became too onerous, and she succumbed to old age.
She came back from one trip ill. For some time she stayed in bed, softly crooning, a seashell clasped in her hand from morning to dusk. I'd never heard her sing before, and only now realised what an outstanding performer she was. You could become lost in her songs. There were times when Hua Hua and I were compelled to stop what we were doing to listen in perfect stillness. The song was familiar, but I couldn't remember where I'd heard it before. Perhaps she'd sung it to me in my cradle, or a previous life.
As I listened, I grew sad. It seemed to me that separation from Chun Chi was imminent. As a child I had dreaded her sea voyages, but now she was trapped in the house, I realised old age was more to be feared.
Hua Hua must have seen the tears flashing in my eyes. She sneered at my weakness. How I hated her at that moment. She had no way of understanding the meaning of Chun Chi's song.
The servants brought the table of shells to Chun Chi's bedside but she was already too weak to touch them without trembling. Her shivering fingers could only coax a few rushed sounds out of them.
I could sense her anxiety. There wasn't much time left. Her temper was growing worse, and she frequently flung handfuls of shells to the ground.
