That night after dinner, we sat outside, enjoying the cool evening air and watching Baba and Uncle smoke their long pipes. Everyone was tired. Mama nursed the baby a final time, trying to get him to fall asleep. She looked weary from the day’s chores, which were still not completely done for her. I looped my arm over her shoulder to give her comfort.
“Too hot for that,” she said, and gently pushed me away.
Baba must have seen my disappointment, because he took me on his lap. In the quiet darkness, I was precious to him. For that moment, I was like a pearl in his hand.
Footbinding
THE PREPARATION FOR MY FOOTBINDING TOOK MUCH LONGER than anyone expected. In cities, girls who come from the gentry class have their feet bound as early as age three. In some provinces far from ours, girls bind their feet only temporarily, so they will look more attractive to their future husbands. Those girls might be as old as thirteen. Their bones are not broken, their bindings are always loose, and, once married, their feet are set free again so they can work in the fields alongside their husbands. The poorest girls don’t have their feet bound at all. We know how they end up. They are either sold as servants or they become “little daughters-in-law”—big-footed girls from unfortunate families who are given to other families to raise until they are old enough to bear children. But in our so-so county, girls from families like mine begin their footbinding at age six and it is considered done two years later.
Even while I was out running with my brother, my mother had already begun making the long blue strips of cloth that would become my bindings. With her own hands she made my first pair of shoes, but she took even more care stitching the miniature shoes she would place on the altar of Guanyin—the goddess who hears all women’s tears. Those embroidered shoes were only three and a half centimeters long and were made from a special piece of red silk that my mother had saved from her dowry. They were the first inkling I had that my mother might care for me.
When Beautiful Moon and I turned six, Mama and Aunt sent for the diviner to find an auspicious date to begin our binding. They say fall is the most propitious time to start footbinding, but only because winter is coming and cold weather helps numb the feet. Was I excited? No. I was scared. I was too young to remember the early days of Elder Sister’s binding, but who in our village had not heard the screams of the Wu girl down the way?
My mother greeted Diviner Hu downstairs, poured tea, and offered him a bowl of watermelon seeds. Her courtesy was meant to bring good readings. He began with me. He considered my birth date. He weighed the possibilities. Then he said, “I need to see this child with my own eyes.” This was not the usual case, and when my mother fetched me her face was etched with worry. She led me to the diviner. She held me in front of him. Her fingers clutched my shoulders, keeping me in place and frightening me at the same time, while the diviner performed his examination.
“Eyes, yes. Ears, yes. That mouth.” He looked up at my mother. “This is no ordinary child.”
My mother sucked in her breath through closed teeth. This was the worst announcement the diviner could have made.
“Further consultation is required,” the diviner said. “I propose we confer with a matchmaker. Do you agree?”
Some might have suspected that the diviner was trying to make more money for himself and was in league with the local matchmaker, but my mother didn’t hesitate for an instant. Such was my mother’s fear—or conviction—that she didn’t even ask my father’s permission to spend the money.
“Please return as soon as you can,” she said. “We will be waiting.”
The diviner departed, leaving all of us confused. That night my mother said very little. In fact, she would not look at me. There were no jokes from Aunt. My grandmother retired early, but I could hear her praying. Baba and Uncle went for a long walk. Sensing the unease in the household, even my brothers were subdued.
The next day, the women rose early. This time sweet cakes were made, chrysanthemum tea brewed, and special dishes brought out of cupboards. My father stayed home from the fields so he could greet the visitors. All these extravagances showed the seriousness of the situation. Then, to make matters worse, the diviner brought with him not Madame Gao, the local matchmaker, but Madame Wang, the matchmaker from Tongkou, the best village in the county.
Let me say this: Even the local matchmaker had not been to our house yet. She was not expected to visit for another year or two, when she would serve as a go-between for Elder Brother as he searched for a wife and for Elder Sister when families were looking for brides for their sons. So when Madame Wang’s palanquin stopped in front of our house, there was no rejoicing. Looking down from the women’s chamber, I saw neighbors come out to gape. My father kowtowed, his forehead touching the dirt again and again. I felt sorry for him. Baba was a worrier—typical for someone born in the year of the rabbit. He was responsible for everyone in our household, but this was beyond his experience. My uncle hopped from foot to foot, while my aunt—usually so welcoming and jolly—stood frozen in place at his side. From my upstairs vantage point, the conclusion was evident on all the faces below me: Something was terribly wrong.
Once they were inside, I went quietly to the top of the stairs so I could eavesdrop. Madame Wang settled herself. The tea and treats were served. My father’s voice could barely be heard as he went through the polite rituals. But Madame Wang had not come to speak trivialities with this humble family. She wanted to see me. Just as on the day before, I was called to the room. I walked downstairs and into the main room as gracefully as someone can who’s only six and whose feet are still clumsy and large.
I glanced around at the elders in my family. Although there are special moments when the distance of time leaves memories in shadows, the images of their faces on that day are very clear to me. My grandmother sat staring at her folded hands. Her skin was so frail and thin that I could see a blue pulse in her temple. My father, who already had plenty of aggravations, was speechless with anxiety. My aunt and uncle stood together in the main doorway, afraid to be a part of what was about to happen and afraid to miss it too. But what I remember most is my mother’s face. Of course, as a daughter I believed she was pretty, but I saw her true person for the first time that day. I had always known she had been born in the year of the monkey, but I’d never realized that its traits of deceit and cunning ran so strongly in her. Something raw lurked underneath her high cheekbones. Something conniving lay veiled behind her dark eyes. There was something . . . I still do not quite know how to describe it. I would say that something like male ambition glowed right through her skin.
I was told to stand in front of Madame Wang. I thought her woven silk jacket was beautiful, but a child has no taste, no discrimination. Today I would say it was gaudy and unbefitting a widow, but then a matchmaker is not like a regular woman. She does business with men, establishing bride prices, haggling over dowries, and serving as a go-between. Madame Wang’s laugh was too loud and her words too oily. She ordered me forward, clasped me between her knees, and stared hard into my face. In that moment I changed from being invisible to being very visible.