a withered twig. Only the telltale crooked joint and yellowed fingernail prompted a lurch of recognition. There was a sticker on the metal lid with a number: 168, a lucky combination that sounded, in Cantonese, like “fortune all the way.”
Hui said, “Are you going to throw it out?”
“I don’t know. He might come looking for it.”
So far there’d been no sign of the salesman, but he knew my real name.
“Ji Lin” was the Cantonese way of pronouncing it; in Mandarin, it would be “Zhi Lian.” The Ji in my name wasn’t commonly used for girls. It was the character for zhi, or knowledge, one of the five Confucian Virtues. The others were benevolence, righteousness, order, and integrity. Chinese are particularly fond of matched sets and the Five Virtues were the sum of qualities that made up a perfect man. So it was a bit odd that a girl like me should be named for knowledge. If I’d been named something feminine and delicate like “Precious Jade” or “Fragrant Lily,” things might have turned out differently.
* * *
“Such a peculiar name for a girl.”
I was ten years old, a skinny child with large eyes. The local matchmaker, an old lady, had come to call on my widowed mother.
“Her father named her.” My mother gave a nervous smile.
“I suppose you were expecting a son,” said the matchmaker. “Well, I’ve good news for you. You might get one.”
It had been three years since my father had died of pneumonia. Three years of missing his quiet presence, and three years of difficult widowhood for my mother. Her frail figure was more suited to reclining on a chaise than doing other people’s sewing and washing. The skin peeled off her pretty hands, now rough and red. Previously, my mother had put off all talk of matchmaking, but today she seemed especially dispirited. It was very hot and still. The purple bougainvillea outside trembled in the heat.
“He’s a tin-ore dealer from Falim,” said the matchmaker. “A widower with one son. He’s no spring chicken, but neither are you.”
My mother plucked at an invisible thread, then gave a slight nod. The matchmaker looked pleased.
The Kinta Valley in which we lived held the richest tin deposits in the world, and there were dozens of mines, both large and small, nearby. Tin-ore dealers made a good living, and he could have sent to China for a wife, but he’d heard my mother was beautiful. There were other candidates, of course. Better ones. Women who’d never been married. But it was worth a try. Crouching closer to eavesdrop, I hoped desperately that this man would choose one of them instead, but I had an unlucky feeling about it.
* * *
Shin and I, future step-siblings-to-be, met when his father came to call on my mother. It was a very straightforward meeting. No one bothered to pretend that there was some romantic pretext. They brought Chinese sponge cakes wrapped in paper from a local bakery. For years afterwards, I was unable to swallow those soft steamed cakes without choking.
Shin’s father was a stern-looking man, but his expression softened when he saw my mother. It was rumored that his late wife had also been a beauty. He had an eye for attractive women, though, of course, he didn’t visit prostitutes, the matchmaker had assured my mother. He was very serious, financially stable, and neither gambled nor drank. Studying his face surreptitiously, I thought he looked hard and humorless.
“And this is Ji Lin,” my mother said, propelling me forward. Wearing my best dress, outgrown so that my knobby knees stuck out, I dropped my head shyly.
“My son’s name is Shin,” he said. “Written with the character xin. The two of them are already like brother and sister.”
The matchmaker looked pleased. “What a coincidence! That makes two of the five Confucian Virtues. You’d better have three more children so you can complete the set.”
Everyone laughed, even my mother, smiling nervously and showing her pretty teeth. I didn’t. It was true though. With the zhi in my name for wisdom, and xin in Shin’s for integrity, we made up part of a matched set, though the fact that it was incomplete was a bit jarring.
I glanced at Shin to see if he found any of this amusing. He had sharp, bright eyes under thick brows, and when he saw me looking at him, he scowled.
I don’t like you, either, I thought, overcome with anxiety for my mother. She’d never been strong and bearing three more children