17 (15) Bereavement

As evening fell, a growing unease gnawed at Tan Yang’s heart. She lit the kerosene lamp on her desk; the flame, blue at its core and yellow at its edges, leapt up eagerly, only to be trapped behind the glass shade, dimming helplessly. Tan Yang reached out and touched the lamp’s cover—it was burning hot—and the sensation at her fingertips brought back memories of their last meeting, of the warmth his palm once gave her.

When he came, it was overwhelming, all-encompassing; when he left, it was always in utter silence. Perhaps their worlds were separated by mountains and rivers from the very beginning, their intersection so forced that every parting had to be absolute. She recalled the modern trends about new women, ideas she once thought flashy and exaggerated. But in this moment, she realized she must strive forward; only by broadening her perspective, by enlarging her world, could there be more of a connection between them. Otherwise, expecting him to stoop to her narrow existence, or to become a mere appendage in his world—either way was precarious, unsustainable.

Next door, the heavy, old grandfather clock struck eleven times. Sitting on a stool by the door, Tan Yang found the lamp’s light no longer reached her; she hid herself in the darkness, her anxious heart growing weary. Just then, there was a knocking at the gate—light and heavy, irregular. Tan Yang stiffened and pressed her ear to the door, listening. Aunt Wu called out, telling whoever it was to wait, shuffling in her slippers from the side room to open the door. Then came Aunt Wu’s startled exclamation: “Oh my, Master Biao, how did you get yourself so drunk?” Feng Kang ignored her, slurring an unrecognizable tune.

“Aunt Wu, please make some soup to sober up my uncle,” Tan Yang called. Aunt Wu replied, “Alright, Miss, let me help Master Biao inside first!” “Girl, if you really care about your uncle, you’ll break it off with that rascal!” At this, Tan Yang’s heart sank, but she said nothing. Feng Kang continued, stumbling over his words, “That bastard, he’s no good! He even uses the dead as leverage!” “Master Biao, let’s go inside!” Just before entering, Feng Kang suddenly howled, voice thick with tears, “Han Hui, Han Hui, it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s not that I don’t want to…”

Tan Yang leaned feebly against the door, brows furrowed; the disappointment after hope, the grievances of these days locked away, all surged up at once, blurring her vision, shrouding everything in a thick mist of tears.

“It’s time for the young master to return, he’s been here all day.” Though they were in a private room on the second floor, the raucous noise of the opium den still wafted up from below. Bi Qingtang smoked silently, while Uncle Chen looked on, unsure what to do. After a long while, Bi Qingtang finally spoke: “Uncle Chen, help me think of a way!” Uncle Chen hesitated. “Didn’t we try everything today? Feng Kang won’t give in to threats or persuasion. Who would have thought, after all these years as an opium addict, muddling through life, he’d suddenly get so stubborn and clear-headed when it comes to Master Tan’s daughter!” Bi Qingtang’s expression grew even darker. Uncle Chen said, hesitantly, “He’s just an old man. Young master, if you send a few men, can’t you just rescue Miss Tan directly?” Bi Qingtang snorted. “If I could, I’d have done it already! If Old Feng gets angry and spouts nonsense to Tan Yang, I’ll be finished!”

He lit another cigarette. “Young master, the whole opium trade in Shanghai is in your hands. If you cut off his supply, what can an addict like him do?” “If Tan Yang sees her uncle suffering because of her, she’ll feel guilty—and she’ll think I’m despicable. It’s not that I mind being despicable, but if I am, she won’t like it. What can I do?” Bi Qingtang shook his head helplessly. Uncle Chen sighed, “It’s like trying to catch a rat without breaking the vase—truly a dilemma.”

Bi Qingtang crushed his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, staring ahead. “It seems there’s no other way.” Uncle Chen looked at the ash, silent, then sighed.

In the following days, Feng Kang was out early and back late. Tan Yang, aware that school would soon start, felt she could not go on like this. One day, hearing her uncle in the courtyard, she banged on the door and called out, “Uncle, uncle!” “What is it?” “Uncle, let me out! School is about to start! I need to go!” Feng Kang coughed. “You’re not going. I let you study, and all you do is run wild! No more school!” Tan Yang was aghast, stammering, “No, I want to go! It was so hard to get into Jingye School. Please, uncle, let me go!” Feng Kang shuffled to her door, advising earnestly, “You’re not a child anymore, seventeen or eighteen. It’s not proper for a young woman to be drifting about. Over the past few days, I’ve arranged a marriage for you. His surname is Li, he owns a silk shop with several assistants and two servants at home. The family is respectable, the elders reasonable. I met the young man today—he’s four years older than you, honest, proper, speaks and acts well. Any family would be fortunate to have such a son-in-law!”

Tan Yang was stunned, unable to react. Hearing her silence, Feng Kang turned to go, but before entering his room he heard her pounding the door, crying out desperately, “I won’t marry! I’d rather die than marry!” Feng Kang ignored her, and Tan Yang continued sobbing and pounding the door. Soon, the commotion drew a few nosy women from the alley, who gathered to gossip: “Look at that, the opium fiend is selling his niece for a fix.”

After a long time, Tan Yang’s voice was hoarse, her eyes swollen from crying, her hands bloody and numb from beating the door. Collapsing to the floor, she sobbed, “Brother, brother, have you abandoned me too?” Light slipped through the narrow window, illuminating the dancing dust—chaotic, directionless, showing no path out.

Feng Kang seemed eager to avoid delays, setting the wedding for a month later. He busied himself preparing a dowry, hiring seven or eight carpenters to make furniture in the courtyard. From morning till night, the clamor drove Tan Yang to distraction, deepening her misery. Yet no matter how busy Feng Kang was, he always brought her sweets—pear syrup candies, crab shell pastries, hawthorn cakes—thinking she was still the little girl with pigtails, not realizing she had outgrown such tokens. The happiness she longed for could not be filled with treats.

With only ten days left before the wedding, Tan Yang declared one noon that she would starve herself rather than be forced into marriage. Furious, Feng Kang cursed and regretted ever sending her to a foreign school, blaming her for learning only bad things. Aunt Wu, watching the escalating conflict, was at a loss. Just then, the carpenters came to apply the final coat of varnish, and she hurried to serve them tea, then busied herself with lunch. While setting the table in the courtyard, she heard shattering porcelain, and cried out, “Heavens, Master Biao, what’s happened to you?”

Hearing this, Tan Yang ran to the door. “Aunt Wu, what’s going on?” Aunt Wu, panicked, replied, “Master Biao seems to have had a sudden attack—he can’t breathe, his face is turning blue!” Tan Yang was terrified. “Aunt Wu, go get a doctor—no, take him to the Western Hospital!” Aunt Wu wrung her apron, flustered. “I—I don’t know where the money is, and I’ve never been to those places!” “Go borrow money from the neighbors, ask them for help!” Aunt Wu nodded and rushed out, leaving Tan Yang shouting for her uncle, with no response.

After a long while, Aunt Wu burst through the gate, gasping, “Miss, Boss Bi is here! Thank heavens—I couldn’t get a single neighbor to lend us money, everyone knows Master Biao smokes opium and no one wanted to help. But just then I saw Boss Bi at the end of the alley!”

In a few strides, Bi Qingtang was at Tan Yang’s door, pressing his hand against it, calling urgently, “Little sister, little sister.” His voice, stripped of its usual composure, brimmed with emotion; in this moment of parting, his suppressed love blazed fiercely. Tan Yang had no time to dwell on it, urging him instead to tend to her uncle. The car pulled up, and Bi Qingtang had his driver and another helper carry Feng Kang out and rush him to the hospital. Then, he and Aunt Wu searched the house for the keys; failing to find them, Bi Qingtang, frustrated and anxious, began to kick the door, cursing, “Who locks people up like this? Has that old man lost his mind?”

Though the house was old, its doors and windows were sturdy. No matter how hard Bi Qingtang kicked, the door wouldn’t budge; dust fell from the eaves, but the door held. The dust stung his eyes, trying his patience. He cursed, telling Tan Yang to stand back.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Several gunshots exploded at the door, sharp and acrid, sparks flickering in the gloom. Tan Yang, unaccustomed to such violence, cowered in the corner, covering her ears, trembling. Bi Qingtang tried to push the door; when it wouldn’t open, he fired again. With a crash, the lock fell away, and he burst in. After months shut away from sunlight, Tan Yang looked up to see his tall figure framed in the blinding light, his silhouette sharply defined.

Dazzled by the brightness, she squinted; moments later, strong arms drew her into a close embrace. To her surprise, this unfamiliar chest brought unexpected peace. Looking up, she met Bi Qingtang’s bloodshot gaze, filled with fierce longing and deep love—he no longer bothered to hide it. Sudden happiness swept in, pressing close and suffocating, scattering all else.

Bi Qingtang led Tan Yang out and hailed a rickshaw. They had no idea which hospital Feng Kang had been taken to. Bi Qingtang named several, but each was a dead end. Tan Yang was frantic. At dusk, in a large Western hospital far from home, they finally found Feng Kang—dead. The young doctor, perhaps rattled by his failure, stammered incoherently. Uncle Chen fetched a senior physician, who explained that Feng Kang’s years of opium addiction had led to poisoning; all efforts to save him had failed.

Stumbling to the bedside, Tan Yang was confronted by the form beneath the white sheet—a body exuding despair and death. Her trembling hand reached for the sheet, but Bi Qingtang caught her, “Little sister, don’t look.” “I must see my uncle one last time!” she cried, pulling at the sheet. Blue-black skin, a twisted expression—could death really be so grotesque? Bi Qingtang quickly covered her eyes, holding her close.

Yet that scene was seared into Tan Yang’s memory. Her reason collapsed; she wailed with anguish, for she had just lost the last person in the world who belonged to her.